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THE COMPLETE WORKS 



ALFRED 
LORD TENNYSON 



POET LAUREATE 



CHARLES HOWARD JOHNSON 





\ E W \- O R K 
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 

MDCCCXCI 









CnrvRi.-.HT, .891 
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 



2-3f33i 





<r^ 





TO THE QUEEN. 



Revered y beloved — O you thai hold 

A nobler office upon earth 

Than arms, or power of brain, or 
birth 
Could give the warrior kings of old. 



Take, Madam, this poor book of song ; 
for tio' the faults were thick as dust 
In vacant chambers, I could trust 

Your kindness. May you rule us long. 



Victoria, — since your Royal grace 
To one of less desert allows 
This laurel greener from the brows 

Of him that utter'd nothing base ; 



And leave us rulers of your blood 
As noble till the latest day ! 
May children of our children say, 

' She wrought her people lasting good ; 



And should your greatness, and the 
That yokes with empire, yield you 



Tit make demand of modern rhyn 
If aught of ancient worth be there ; 



' Her court was pure ; her life serene : 
God gave her peace ; her land re- 
posed ; 
A thousand claims to reverence 
closed 
In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen ; 



Then — while a sweeter music wakes. 
And thro' wild March the throstle 

calls. 
Where all about your palace-walls 

The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes — 



' And statesmen at her council met 
Who knew the seasons when to take 
Occasion by the hand, and make 

The bounds of freedom wider yet 



' By shaping some august decree. 

Which kept her throne unshaken still. 
Broad-based upon her people's will. 

And compass d by the inviolate sea.' 



March, 1851. 






JUVENILIA. 



I. 

Where Claiibel low-lieth 
The brerees pause and die, 
Letting the rose-leaves fall : 
But the solemn oak-tree sigheth, 
Thick-leaved, ambrosial. 
With an ancient melody 
Of an inward agony, 
Where Claribel low-lieth. 



At eve the beetle boometh 

Athwart the thicket lone : 
At noon the wild bee hummeth 

About the moss'd headstone : 
At midnight the moon cometh, 

And looketh down alone. 
Her song the lintwhite swelleth. 
The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth, 

The callow throstle lispeth, 
The slumbrous wave outwelleth. 

The babbling runnel crispeth, 
The hollow grot replieth 

Where Claribel low-lieth. 



NOTHING Wn.L DIE. 

When will the stream be aweary of 
flowing 

Under my eye ? 
When will the wind be aweary of 
blowing 

Over the sky ? 



When will the clouds be awean,' of 

fleeting ? 
When will the heart be aweary of 
beating.' 

And nature die ? 
Never, oh ! never, nothing will die; 
The stream flows. 
The wind blows. 
The cloud fleets. 
The heart beats, 
Nothing will die. 

Nothing will die; 

All things will change 

Thro' eternity. 

'Tis the world's winter ; 

Autumn and summer 

Are gone Ion 

Earth is dry i 

But spring, a new comer, 

A spring rich and strange, 

Shall make the winds blow 

Round and round, 

Thro' and thro'. 

Here and there, 

Till the air 
And the ground 
Shall be fiU'd with life anew 



The world was never made ; 
It will change, but it will not 
.So let the wind range ; 
For even and morn 

Ever will be 

Thro' eternity. 
Nothing was born; 
Nothing will die; 
All things will change. 





•The solemn oak-tree sigheth'— ^^-^ ; 




■til Things Will Die— Leonine Elegiacs. 



ALL THIN 7.S WILL DIE. 

Clearly the b' itV liver chimes in its 
flowing 

Uncer iv.- eye; 
Warmly and br'O. ily the south winds 
are blowM:; 

Over th..' sky. 
One after another \ "^e white clouds are 

fleeting; , 
Every heart this T''ay morning in joy- 
ance is beating 

Full me-rrily ; 

Yet all ihiirs i.iiist die. 

The stream •. i 1 cease to flow ; 

The wind w-i' .rase to blow; 

The cloud<! v.ii ' .ease to fleet ; 

The hea-t w.il ,; I'se to beat; 

For all thiig. r.ust die. 

All things ..1,1st die. 

Spring will come never more. 

Oh! vaniij ! 
Death wa'.ts at ' \\ door. 
See 1 our li icnd i are all forsaking 
The wine and the merrymaking. 
We are cail'd — vve must go. 
Laid low, vetv lew, 
In the dark «•■. must lie. 
The merry gltc art still ; 
The voice 01 l! c bird 
Shall no more '•. 'ii ard, 
Nor the wini'. . •. ;' - 'lill. 

Oh ! ir,i-. , . 
Hark I death i» ^a'ling 
While I speak to ve, 
The jaw is falling, 
The red cheek paling. 
The strong limbs friling ; 
Ice with the warm blood mixing ; 
The eyeballs fi.xing. 
Nine times goes the |y:issing bell : 
Ye merry souls, farew-i!. 
The old earth 
Had a birth. 
As all men know. 
Long ago. 
And the old earth mus; die. 
So let the warm winds ra-jge, 
And the blue wave beat the shore ; 
For even and morn 
Ye will never see 
Thro- 





All things were born 

Ye will come ne 

For all things must die. 



LEONINE ELEGIACS. 



Thro' the black-stemm'd pines only 

the far river shines. 
Creeping thro' blossomy rushes and 

bowers of rose-blowtng bushes, 
Down bv the poplar tall rivulets 

babble and fall. 
Barketh the shepherd-dog cheerly ; 

the grasshopper carol leth clearly ; 
Deeplv the wood-dove coos ; shrilly 

the owlet halloos ; 
Winds creep; dews fall chilly: in her 

first sleep earth breathes' stilly : 
Over the pools in the burn water-gnats 

murmur and mourn. 
Sadly the far kine loweth : the glim- 
mering water outfloweth : 
Twin peaks shadow'd with pine slope 

to the dark hyaline. 
Low-throned Hesper is stayed between 

the two peaks; but the Naiad 
Throbbing in mild unrest holds him 

beneath in her breast. 
The ancient poetess singeth, that Hes- 
perus all things bringeth, 
Smoothing the wearied mind : bring 

me my love, Rosalind. 
Thou comest morning or even ; she 

Cometh not morning or even. 
Talse-eyed Hesper, unkind, where is 

my sweet Rosalind ? 



SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS 

OF A SECOND-RATE SENSITIVE MIND. 

God! my God I have 

1 faint, I fa'll. Men say that Thou 
Didst die for me. for such as me. 
Patient of ill. and death, and 
.And that mv sin was as a thorn 





Confessions of A Sensitive Mind. 



Among the thorns that girt Thy brow, 

Wounding Thy soul. — That even now, 

In this exlremest misery 

Of ignorance, I should require 

A sign I and if a holt of fire 

Would rive the slumbrous summer 

While I do pray to Thee alone, 
Think my belief would stronger grow ! 
Is not my human pride brought low ? 
The boastings of my spirit still ? 
The joy I had in my freewill 
All cold, and dead, and corpse-like 

grown ? 
And what is left to me, but Thou, 
And faith in Thee ? Men pass me by j 
Christians with happy countenances — 
And children all seem full of Thee! 
And women smile with saint-like 

glances 
Like Thine own mother's when she 

bow'd 
Above Thee, on that happy morn 
When angels spake to men aloud. 
And Thou and peace to earth were 

born. 
Goodwill to me as well as all — 
I one of them : n-.y brothers they : 
brothers in Christ — a world of peace 
And confidence, day after day; 
And trust and hope till things should 

cease, 
And then one Heaven receive us all. 

How sweet to have a common "faith ! 
To hold a common scorn of death ! 
And at a burial to hear 
The creaking cords which wound and 

Into my human heart, whene'er 
Earth goes to earth, with grief, not 

fear. 
With hopeful grief, were passing 

sweet I 

Thrice happj; state again to be 
The trustful infant on the knee! 
Who lets his rosy fingers play 

mother's neck, and knows 
Nothing beyond his mother's eyes. 
They comfort him by night and day ; 




He hath no care of 1 in .r ,i , th ; 
Scarce outward signs of joy arise, 
Because the Spirit of liappine^s 
And perfect rest so i luvai d is ; 
And loveth so his in nocent heart. 
Her temple and her place of iiirth, 
Where she would e ver wish to dwell. 
Life of the fountain, ihrre, litiieath 
Its salient springs, , and far apart. 
Hating to wander out on eai th, 
Or breathe into (he .'hollow ,iir. 
Whose chillness wtiuld make visible 
Her subtil, warm, atid golden breath, 
Which mixing with the infant's blood. 
Fulfils him with beatitude. 



Oh ! sure ; 



, spe cial 



Of God, to f irtify fiom .loubt. 
To arm in proof, a ul . i.i' ; about 
With triple-inaiU'd t-;i~;. , id clear 
Delight, the inia«t .s (i;n\:rng year. 

Would that m'' gloomed fancy were 
As thine, my mofter, when with brows 
Propt on thv knees, mv hands upheld 
In thine, I li.stvn'd to \\v. vows. 
For me outpour'fl in l.ihest prayer — 
For me unworlliy ! — .Tr..: beheld 
Thy mild dct|i cy.^ u; r.used, that knew 
The beauty and i c|iu<i .f faith. 
And thecleai spirii sii;ning thro". 
Oh! whcrcfi>r<. do w. zxovi awrv 
From rool> whicii .siril.» so deep? why 

Paths in the desert* i^ould not I 
Bowmyselfdown, where thou hastknelt. 
To the eartli — until the ice would melt 
Here, and I feel as thou hast felt .' 
What Uevil had the heart to scathe 
Flowers thou hadst rear'd — to brush 

the dew 
From thine own lily, when thy grave 
Was deep, mv mother, in the clay.' 
Myself .> I,sitthus.> Mvself.> Had I 
So little love for thee? But why 
Prevail'd not thy pure prayers ? Why 

pray 
To one who heeds not, who can save 
But will not ? Great in faith, and strong 
Against the grief of circumstance 
Wert thou, and yet unheard. What if 
Thou pleade^l still, and seest me drive 
Thr.V utter dark :i full-sail'd skiff. 
UnjuloteJ i' ;hc echoing dance 





Cotifessions of a Sensitive Mind. 



Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low 
Unto the death, not sunk ! I know 
At matins and at evensong. 
That thou, it thou wert yet alive. 
In deep and daily prayers would'st 

strive 
To reconcile me with thy (lod. 
Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold 
At heart, thou wouldest murmur still — 
' Bring this lamb back into Thy fold, 
Mv Lord, if so it be Thy will.' 
Would'st tell me I must brook the rod 
And chastisement of human pride ; 
That pride, the sin of devils, stood 
Betwixt me and the light of God ! 
That hitherto I had defied 
And had rejected God — that grace 
AVould drop from his o'er-brimming 

love, 
\s manna on my wilderness, 
If I would pray — that God would 

move 
And strike the hard, hard rock, and 

thence. 
Sweet in their utmost bitterness, 
Would issue tears of penitence 
Which would keep green hope's life. 

Alas! 
I think that pride hath now no place 
Nor sojourn in me. I am void. 
Dark, formless, utterly destroyed. 



Why not believe then ? Why not yet 
Anchor thy frailty there, where man 
Haih moor'd and rested? Ask the 

sea 
At midnight, when the crisp slope 

waves 
.'\fter a tempest, rib and fret 
The broad-imbased beach, why he 
Slumbers not like a mountain tarn .> 
Wherefore his ridges are not curls 
And ripples of an inland mere .' 
Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can 
Draw down into his vexed pools 
All that blue heaven which hues and ! 

paves j 

The other .' I am too forlorn. 
Too shaken : my own weakness fools 
My judgment, and nvy spirit whirls, 
Moved from beneath with doubt and j 




fresh] 




' Yet,' said I, in i 
The unsunn'd 

strength. 
When I went forth in quest of tnith, 
' It is man's privilege to doubt. 
If so be that from doubt at length, 
Truth may stand forth unmoved of 

change, 
An image with profulgent brows. 
And perfect limbs, as from the storm 
Of running fires and fluid range 
Of lawless airs, at last stood out 
This excellence and solid form 
Of constant beauty. For the Ox 
Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills 
The horned valleys all about. 
And hollows of the fringed hills 
In summer heats, with placid lows 
Unfearing, till his own blood fiows 
About his hoof. And in the flocks 
The lamb rejoiccth in the year. 
And raceth freely with his fere, 
And answers to his mother's calls 
From the flower'd furrow. In a time, 
Of which he wots not, run short pains 
Thro' his warm heart ; and then, from 

whence 
He knows not, on his light tliere falls 
A shadow ; and his native slope, 
Where he was wont to leap and climb. 
Floats from his sick and filmed eyes. 
And something in the darkness draws 
His forehead earthward, and he dies. 
Shall man live thus, in joy and hope 
As a young lamb, who cannot dream, 
Living, but that he shall live on .' 
Shall we not look into the laws 
Of life and death, and things that 

seem. 
And things that be, and analyse 
Our double nature, and compare 
All creeds till we have found the one. 
If one there be ? ' Ay me ! I fear 
All may not doubt, but everywhere 
Some must cla.sp Idols. Yet, my God, 
Whom call I Idol ? Let Thy dove 
Shadow me over, and my sins 
Ke unremember'd, and Thy love 
Enlighten me. Oh teach me yet 
.Somewhat before the heavy clod 
Weighs on me, and the busy fret 
Of that sharp-headed worm begins 
In the gross blackness underneath. 





The Krakeit — Song — Lilian — Isabel. 



O weary life ! O weary death ! 
O spirit and heart made desolate I 
O damned vacillating state ! 



THE KKAKEN. 

Below the thunders of the upper 

deep ; 
Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea, 
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded 

sleep 
The Kraken sleepelh : faintest sun- 
lights flee 
About his shadowy sides : above him 

swell 
Huge sponges of millennial growth and 

heisjht ; 
And far away into the sickly light, 
From many a wondrous grot'and secret 

cell 
Unnumber'd and enormous polypi 
Winnow with giant arms the slumber- 
ing green. 
There hath he lain for ages and will lie 
Battening upon huge seaworms in his 



Until the latter fire shall heat the 

deep ; 
Then once by man and angels to be 

seen. 
In roaring he shall rise and on the 

surface die. 



SONG. 

The winds, as at their hour of birth. 
Leaning upon the ridged sea. 

Breathed low around the rolling earth 
With mellow preludes, 'We are 
free.' 



The streams through many a lilied 
row 

Down-carolling to the crisped sea. 
Low-tinkled with a bell-like flow 

Atween the blossoms, ' We are free.' 




Airy, fairy Lilian, 

Flitting, fairy Lilian, 
When I ask her if she love me. 
Claps her tiny hands above me, 

Laughing all she can ; 
She'll not tell me if she love me. 

Cruel little Lilian. 



When my passion seeks 
Pleasance in love-sighs, 
.She, looking thro' and thro' me 
Thoroughly to undo me, 
Smiling, never speaks : 
So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple, 
From beneath her gathered wimple 
Glancing with black-beaded eyes. 
Till the lightning laughters dimple 
The baby-roses in her cheeks ; 
Then away she flies. 



Prythee weep, May Lilian ! 
Gaiety without eclipse 

Wearieth me. May Lilian : 
Thro' my very heart it thrilleth 

When from crimson-threaded lips 
Silver-treble laughter trilleth ; 

Prythee weep. May Lilian. 

IV. 

Praying all I can, 
If prayers will not hush thee. 

Airy Lilian, 
Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, 

Fairy Lilian 



ISABEL. 

I. 

Eyes not down-dropt nor over-bright, 

but fed 

With the clear-pointed flame of 

chastity. 
Clear, without heat, undying, tended 
by 





Isabel — Mariana. 



Pure vestal thoughts in the trans- 
lucent fane 
Of her still spirit ; locks not wide-dis- 
spread, 
Madonna-wise on either side her 

head; 
Sweet lips whereon perpetually 
did reign 
The summer calm of golden charity. 
Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mooci, 
Revered Isabel, the crown and 
head, 
The stately flower of female fortitude. 
Of perfect wifehood and pure 
lowlihead. 

II. 



The intuitive decision of a bright 
And thorough-edged intellect to 
part 
Error from crime; a prudence to 

withhold; 
The laws of marriage character'd 
in gold 
Upon the blanched tablets of her 
heart ; 
A love still burning upward, giving 

light 
To read those laws; an accent very low 
In blandishment, but a most silver flow 
Of subtle-paced counsel in dis- 
tress, 
Right to the heart and ' brain, tho' 
undescried. 
Winning its way with extreme 
gentleness 
Thro' all the outworks of suspicious 

pride ; 
A courage to endure and to obev ; 
A hale of gossip parlance, and of 

sway, 
Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life, 
The queen of marriage, a most per- 
fect wife. 



The mellow'd reflex ol a winter moon ; 
A clear stream flowing with a nuiddy 




Till in its onward 
With swiftei 
purer light 




The vexed ediii.s of its way- 
ward brother : 
A leaning and upbearing parasite, 
Clothing the stem, which else had 
fallen quite 
With cluster'd flower-bells and am- 
brosial orbs 
Of rich fruit-bunchas leaning on 

each other — 
Shadow forth thte :— the world 
hath not another 
(Tho' all her fairest forms are types 

of thee, 
And thou of God in thy great charity) 
Of such a finish'd chasten'd purity. 



' Mariana in the moated granRe." 

Measure /or Measure, 

With blackest moss the flower-plots 
Were thickly crusted, one and all : 
The rusted nails fell from the knots 

That held the pear to the gable-wall. 
The broken sheds look'd sad and 
strange : 
Unlifted was the clinking latch ; 
Weeded and worn the ancient 
thatch 
Upon the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, ' My life is dreary, 

He Cometh not,' she said ; 

She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead 1 ' 

Her tears fell with the dews at even ; 
Her tears fell ere the dews were 
dried ; 
She could not look on the sweet 
heaven. 
Either at morn or eventide. 
After the flitting of the bats. 

When thickest dark did trance the 

sky, 
She drew her casement-curtain by. 
And glanced athwart the gl 



She only said, ' The night is dreary, 
He Cometh not.' she said ; 

.She said, ' t am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I ' 





Mariana — To ■ 



Upon the middle of the night, 

Waking she heard the night-fowl 
crow ; 
The cock sung out an hour ere light : 

From the dark fen the oxen's low 

Came to her : without hope of change, 

In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn, 

Till cold winds woke the gr4y-eyed 

morn 

About the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, ' The day is dreary, 

He Cometh not,' she said ; 

She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! ' 

About a stone-cast from the wall 
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept. 

And o'er it many, round and small. 
The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. 

Hard by a poplar shook alway. 
All silver-green with gnarled bark : 
For leagues no other tree did mark 

The level waste, the rounding gray. 
She only said, ' My life is dreary, 



He Cometh not,' she said ; 



She 



And ever \*hen the moon was low, 
■And the shrill winds were up and 
away. 
In the white curtain, to and fro. 

She saw the gusty shadow sway. 
But when the moon was very low. 
And wild winds bound within their 

cell. 
The shadow of the poplar fell 
Upon her bed, across her brow. 

She only said, 'The night is 
dreary. 
He Cometh not,' she said ; 
She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! ' 



All day within the dreamy house, 
The doors upon their hinges 
creak'd; 
The blue Hy sung in the pane j the 
mouse 
Behind the mouldering wainscot 
shriek'd, 
Or from the crevice i)eer'd about. 





Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors. 
Old footsteps trod the upper floors, 
Old voices called her from without. 
She only said, ' My life is dreary. 

He cometh not,' she said; 

She said, ' I am awearv, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! ' 

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof. 
The slow clock ticking, and the 
sound 
Which to the wooing wind aloof 

The poplar made, did all confound 

Her sense; but most she loathed the 

hour 

When the thick-moted sunbeam lav 

Athwart the chambers, and the day 

Was sloping toward his western 

bower. 

Then, said she, ' I am very dreary. 

He will not come,' she said ; 

She wept, ' I am aweary, aweary. 

Oh God. that I were dead I ' 



CLE.A.R-HEADED friend, whose joyful 

Edged with sharp laughter, cuts 

The knots that tangle human 
creeds, 
The wounding cords that bind and 

The heart ■■.ntil it bleeds, 
Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn 

Roof not a glance so keen as 

thine : 
If aught of prophecy be mine. 
Thou wilt not live in vain. 



Low-cowering shall the .Sophist sit ; 
Falsehood shall bare her plaited 

Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not 



With shrilling shafts of subtle 
Nor martvr tl:,mes. nn 
swords 





Madeline— Song : The Oivl. 



Can do away that ancient lie; 
A gentler death shall Falsehood die, 
Shot thro' and thr'o with cunning 
words. 

III. 
Weak Trnth a-Ieaning on her crutch, 
Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost 

need, 
Thv kingly intellect shall feed, 
tfntil she be an athlete bold, 
kwA weary with a finger's touch 

Those writhed limbs of lightning 
speed ; 
Like that strange angel which of old, 

Until the breaking of the light. 
Wrestled with wandering Israel, 
Past Yabbok brook the livelong 
night. 
And heaven's mazed signs stood still 
In the dim tract of Penuel. 



MADELINE. 



Thou art not. steep'd in golden Ian- 
No tranced summer calm is thine, 
Ever varying Madeline. 
Thro' light and shadow thou dost 

range. 
Sudden glances, sweet and strange, 

Delicious spites and darling angers, 
And airy forms of flitting change. 

II. 
Smiling, frowning, evermore, 
Thou art perfect in love-lore. 
Revealings deep and clear are thine 
Of wealthy smiles : but who may 

Whether smile or frown be fleeter .' 
Whether smile or frown be sweeter. 

Who may know ? 
Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow 
Light-glooming over eyes divine. 
Like liltle clouds sun-fringed, are 
thine, 

Ever varying Madeline. 





Thy smile and frown are not aloof 
From one another, 
Each to each is dearest brother ; 
Hues of the silken sheeny woof 
Momently shot into each other. 
All the mystery is thine ; 
Smiling, frowning, evermore, 
Thou art perfect in love-lore, 
Ever varying Madeline. 



A subtle, sudden flame. 
By veering passion fann'd. 

About thee breaks and dances ; 
When I would kiss thy hand. 
The flush of anger'd shame 

O'erflows thy calmer glances. 
And o'er black brows drops down 
A sudden-curved frown : 
But when I turn away. 
Thou, willing me to .stay, 

Wooest not, nor vainly wranglestj 

But, looking fixedly the while. 
All my bounding heart entanglest 

In a golden-netted smile ; 
Then in madness and in bliss. 
If my lips should dare to kiss 
Thy taper fingers amorously. 
Again thou blushest angerly; 
And o'er black brows drops down 
A sudden-curved frown. 



SONG— THE OWL. 



When cats run home and light is 
come. 
And dew is cold upon the ground. 
And the far-off stream is iTurab, 
And the whirring sail goes round, 
And the whirring sail goes round ; 
Alone and warming his five wits, 
The white owl in the belfry sits. 



II. 
When merry milkmaids click 
latch. ■ 
And rarelv smells the i 





The Ozvl — Reco/lectioiis of The Arabian Nights. 



•i or thrice his roundelay, 

; or thrice his roundelay; 

Alone and warming his five 

The white owl in the belfry s 



SECOND SONG. 



TO THE SAME. 



Thy tuwhits are luU'd, I wot, 
Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, 
Which upon the dark afloat. 
So took echo with delight, 
So took echo with delight. 
That her voice untuneful grown, 
Wears all day a fainter tone. 

II. 

I would mock thy chant anew ; 

But I cannot niimick it ; 
Not a whit of thy tuwhoo. 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit. 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit. 
With a lengthen'd loud halloo, 
Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tu- 
whoo-o-o. 



RF.COLLECTIONS OF THK 

ARABIAN NIGHTS. 

When the breeze of a joyful dawn 

blew free 
In the silken sail of infancy. 
The tide of time flow'd back with me, 

The forward-flowing tide of time ; 
And many a sheeny summer-morn, 
Adown the Tigris I was borne. 
By Kagdat's shrines of fretted gold. 
High-walled gardens green and old; 
True Mussulman was I and sworn, 
For it wos in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Anight my shallop, rustling thro' 
The low and bloomed foliage, drove 
The fragrant, glistening deeps, and 

clove 
The citron-shadows in the blue : 
By garden i>orches on the brim, 





Gold glittering thro' lamplight d 

And broider'd sofas on each side: 

In sooth it was a goodly time. 

For it was in the golden prime 

Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Often, where clear-stemm'd platans 

guard 
The outlet, did I turn away 
The boat-head down a broad canal 
From the main river sluiced, where all 
The sloping of the moon-lit sward 
Was damask-work, and deep inlay 
Of braided blooms unniown, which 

crept 

Adown to where the water slept. 

A goodly place, a goodly time, 

For it was in the golden prime 

Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

A motion from the river won 
Ridged the smooth level, bearing on 
My shallop thro' the star-strown calm, 
Until another night in night 
I enter'd, from the clearer light, 
Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm. 
Imprisoning sweets, which, as they 

clomb 
Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the 
dome 
Of hollow boughs. — A goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Still onward; and the clear canal 
Is rounded to as clear a lake. 
From the green rivage many a fall 
Of diamond rillets musical. 
Thro' little cry.stal arches low 
Down from the central fountain's flow 
Fall'n silverK;himing, seemed to shake 
The sparkling flints beneath the prow. 
A goodly place, a goodly time, 

For it was in thegolden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
Above thro' many a bowery turn 
A walk with vary-color'd shells 
Wander'd enrrain'd. On either side 
All round about the fragrant marge 
From fluted vase, and brazen urn 
In order, eastern flowers large, 





Recollections of The Arabian Nights. 



dropping low their 

bells 

lalf-closed, and others studded wide 

With disks and tiars, fed the time 

With odor in the golden prime 

Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Far off, and where the lemon grove 
In closest coverture upsprung, 
The living airs of middle night 
Died round the bulbul as he sung ; 
Not he : but something which pos- 
sess 'd 
The darkness of the world, delight, 
Life, anguish, death, immortal love, 
Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd. 
Apart from place, withholding time, 
But flattering the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Black the garden-bowers and grots 
Slumber'd : the solemn palms were 

ranged 
Above, unwoo'd of summer wind : 
A sudden splendor from behind 
Fiush'd all the leaves with rich gold- 
green. 
And, flowing rapidly between 
Their interspaces, counterchanged 
The level lake with diamond-plots 
Of dark and bright. A lovely time. 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead. 
Distinct with vivid stars inlaid. 
Grew darker from that under-flame : 
So, leaping lightly from the boat, 
With silver anchir left afloat. 
In marvel whence that glory came 
Up.Mi me, as in sleep I sank 
In cool soft turf upon the bank. 

Entranced with that place and time, 
So worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Thence thro' the garden I was 

drawn — 
K realm of pleasance, many a mound, 
And many a shadow-chequer'd lawn 
Full of the city's stilly sound, 
And deep inyrrh-thickets blowing 

rounc' 





The stately cedar, tamarisks, 

Thick rosaries of scented thorn. 

Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks 

Graven with emblems of the time. 

In honor of the golden prime 

Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

With dazed vision unawares 
From the long alley's latticed shade 
Emerged, I came upon the great 
Pavilion of the Caliphat. 
Right to the carven cedarn doors, 
Flung inward over spangled floors. 
Broad-based flights of marble stairs 
Ran up with golden balustrade. 
After the fashion of the time, 
And humor of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

The fourscore windows all alight 
As with the quintessence of flame, 
A million tapers flaring bright 
From twisted silvers look'd to shame 
The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd 
Upon the mooned domes aloof 
In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd 
Hundreds of crescents on the roof 

Of night new-risen, that marvellous 
time 

To celebrate the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Then stole I up, and trancedly 
Gazed on the Persian girl alone. 
Serene with argent-lidded eyes 
Amorous, and lashes like to rays 
Of darkness, and a brow of pearl 
Tressed with redolent ebony, 
In many a dark delicious curl. 
Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone ; 
The sweetest lady of the time. 
Well worthy of the golden prime 
Of good ilaroun Alraschid. 

Six columns, three on either side. 
Pure silver, underpropt a rich 



from 



Throne of the massive 

which 
Down-droop'd, in many 

fold, 
Engarlanded and diaper'd 
With inwrought flowers, a cloth of 

gold. 





Ode to Memory. 



Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr'd 
With merriment of kingly pride, 
Sole star of all that place and time, 
I saw him — in his golden prime, 
The Good Haroun Alraschid. 



ODE TO MEMORY. 



ADDRESSED TO • 



Thou who stealest fire. 
From the fountains of the past, 
To glorify the present ; oh, haste. 

Visit my low desire 1 
Strengthen me, enlighten me ! 
I faint in this obscurity. 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



Come not as thou camest of late, 
Flinging the gloom of yesternight 
On the white day ; but robed in soft- 
en'd light 

Of orient state. 
Whilome thou camest with the morn- 
ing mist, 
Even as a maid, whose stately brow 
The dew-impearled winds of' dawn 
have kiss'd. 

When, she, as thou, 
Stays on her floating locks the lovely 

freight 
Of overflowing blooms, and earliest 

shoots 
Of orient green, giving safe pledge of 

fruits. 
Which in wintertide shall star 
The black earth with brilliance rare. 



Whilome thou camest with the morn- 
ing mist. 
And with the evening cloud, 
Showering thy gleaned wealth into 

my open breast 
(Those peerless flowers which in the 
rudest wind 

Never grow sere. 





the garden of the 



When rooted 

mind, 
Because they are the earliest of the 

year). 

Nor was the night thy shroud. 
In sweet dreams softer than unbroken 

rest 
Thou leddest by the hand thine infant 

Hope. 
The eddying of her garments caught 

from thee 
The light of thy great presence; and 

the cope' 
Of the half-attain'd futurity, 
Tho' deep not fathomless. 
Was cloven with the million stars 

which tremble 
O'er the deep mind of dauntless in- 
fancy. 
Small thought was there of life's dis- 
tress ; 
For sure she deem'd no mist of earth 

could dull 
Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen 

and beautiful : 
Sure she was nigher to heaven's 

spheres, 
Listening the . lordly music flowing 

from 

The illimitable years. 

strengthen me, enlighten me I 

1 faint in this obscurity. 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



Come forth, I charge thee, arise. 
Thou of the many tongues, the myriad 

eyes I 
Thou comest not with shows of flaunt- 
ing vines 

Unto mine inner eye, 
Divinest Memory I 
Thou wert not nursed by the water- 
fall 
Which ever sounds and shines 

A pillar of white light upon the 

wall 

Of purple cliffs, aloof descried : 

Come from the woods that belt the 

grav hill-side. 
The seven elms, the poplars four 
That stand beside my father's door, 




ERE DEAD I 




'The dakk deserted novSE."—fage 17. 




Odt to Alcmory. 



And cbiefly from the brook that loves 

To purl o'er iiiiitted cress and ribbed 
sand, 

Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves, 

Drawing into his narrow earthern urn, 
In every elbow and turn, 

The filterVl tribute of the rough wood- 
land, 

<)! hither lead thy feet ! 

I'onr round mine ears tlie livelong 
bleat 

I )f the thick-fleeced sheep from wat- 
tled folds, 

Upon the ridged wolds. 

When the first matin-song hath wak- 
en'd loud 

Over the dark dewy earth forlorn, 

What time the amber morn 

l'"c)rlh gushes from beneath a low- 
hung cloud. 



Large dowries doth the raptured eye 
To the vonng spirit present 
Wheii (irst she is wed ; 

And like a bride of old 
In triumph led. 

With music and sweet showers 
Of festal flowers. 
Unto the dwelling she must sway. 
Well ha.st thou done, great artist 
Memory, 
In setting round thy first experiment 
With royal frame-work of 
wrought gold ; 
Needs must thou dearly love thy first 

essay. 
And foremost in thy various gallery 
Place it, where sweetest .sunlight 

falls 
Upon the storied walls ; 
For the discovery 
.■\nd newness of thine art so pleased 

thee, 
That all which thou hast drawn of 
fairest 
Or boldest since, but lightly weighs 
With thee unto the love thou bearest 
The first-born of thy genius. Artist- 
like, 
Mver retiring thou dost gaze 

■ e labor of thine early days : 





iilmg 
light 



, No matter what the sketch might be ; 
Whether the high field on the bushlc.-s 
Pike, 
I Or even a sand-built ridge 
' Of heaped hills that mound the sea, 
Overblown with murmurs harsh, 
Or even a lowly cottage whence we see 
Stretch'd wide and wild the waste 

enormous marsh, 
Where from the frequent bridge, 
Like emblems of infinity, 
The trenched waters run from sky to 

sky ; 
Or a garden bower'd close 
With plaited alleys of the 

rose. 
Long alleys falling down to 

grots. 

Or opening upon level plots 
Of crowned lilies, standing near 
I'urple-spiked lavender : 
Whither in after life retired 
I From brawling storms, 
I From weary wind. 
With youthful fancy re-inspired, 

We may hold converse with all 
forms 
Of the many-sided mind, 
And those whom passion hath not 

blinded, 
.Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded. 

My friend, with you to live alone, 
Were how much better than to own 
A crown, a sceptre, and a throne ! 

strengthen me, enlighten me ! 

1 faint in this obscurity. 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



A SPIRIT haunts the year's last hours 
1 )we!ling atnid these yellowing bowers: 

To himself he talks j 
For at eventide, listening earnestly, 
At his work you may hear him sob 
and sigh 

In the walks; 





Song — A Character — The Poet. 



Earthward he boweth the heavy 
stalks 
Of the mouldering flowers : 

Heavily hangs the broad sun- 
flower 
Over its grave i' the earth so 
chilly ; 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock, 
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 



II. 

np, and hush'd, and 
room when he taketh 



The air is 

Cl05 

As a sick m: 



repose 
An hour before death ; 
My very heart faints and my whole 

soul grieves 
At the moist, rich smell of the rotting 
leaves. 
And the breath 

Of the fading edges of box 
beneath, 
And the year's last rose. 

Heavily hangs the broad sun- 
flower 
Over its grave i' the earth so 
chilly; 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock, 
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 



A CHARACTER. 

With a half-glance upon the sky 
At night he said, ' The wanderings 
Of this most intricate Universe 
Teach me the nothingness of things 
Yet could not all creation pierce 
Beyond the bottom of his eye. 

He spake of beauty : that the dull 
Saw no divinity in grass. 
Life in dead stones, or spirit in air; 
Then looking as 'twere in a glass. 
He sniooth'd his chin and sleek'd his 



And said the earth was beautiful. 

He spake of virtue : not the gods 

More purelv, when they wish to charm 
Pallas and Juno sitting by: 





And with a sweeping of the arm, 
And a lack-lustre dead-blue eye, 
Devolved his rounded periods. 

Most delicately hour by hour 
He canvass'd human mysteries. 
And trod on silk, as if the winds 
Blew his own praises in his eyes. 
And stood aloof from other minds 
In impotence of fancied power. 

With lips depress'd as he were meek. 
Himself unto himself he sold : 
Upon himself himself did feed^: 
Quiet, dispassionate and cold, 
And other than his form of creed. 
With chisell'd features clear and 
sleek. 



THE POET. 

The poet in a golden clinie was born. 

With golden stars above ; 
Dower'd with the hate of hate, the 
scorn of scorn. 
The love of love. 

He saw thro' life and death, thro' 
good and ill. 
He saw thro' his own soul. 
The marvel of the everlasting will, 
An open scroll. 

Before him lay : with echoing feet he 

threaded 

The secretest walks of fame : 

The viewless arrows of his thoughts 

were headed 

And wing'd with flame, 

Like Indian reeds blown from his sil- 
ver tongue, 
And of so fierce a flight. 
From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung. 
Filling with light 

And vagrant melodies the winds 
which bore 
Them earthward till they tit ; 
Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field 
flower, 
The fruitful wit 




The Poefs Mind: 



Cleaving, took root, and springing 
forth anew 
Where'er they fell, behold. 
Like to the mother plant in semblance, 

A flower all gold. 

And bravely furnish'd all abroad to 
fling 
The winged shafts of truth. 
To throng with stately blooms the 
breathing spring 
Of Hope and Youth. 

So many minds did gird their orbs 
with beams, 
Tho' one did fling the fire. 
Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many 
dreams 
Of high desire. 

Thus truth was multiplied on truth, 
the world 
Like one great garden show'd. 
And thro' the wreaths of floating dark 
upcuii'd. 
Rare sunrise flow'd. 

.A.nd Freedom rear'd in that august 
sunrise 
Her beautiful bold brow. 
When rites and forms before his burn- 
ing eyes 
Melted like snow. 

There was no blood upon her maiden 
robes 
Sunn'd by those orient skies ; 
But round about the circles of the 
globes 
Of her keen eyes 




was traced 



And in her raiment': 
in flame 
Wisdom, a name to shake 
All evil- dreams of power — a sacred 
name. 
And when she spake. 



words did gather thunder as they 

ran, 
.\nd as the lightning to the thun- 




Which follows it, riving the spi 

Making earth wonder, 

So was their meaning to her words. 
No sword 
Of wrath her right arm whirl'd, 



THE POET'S MIND. 



Vex not thou the poet's mind 

With thy shallow wit : 
Vex not thou the poet's mind ; 

For thou canst not fathom it. 
Clear and bright it should be ever, 
Flowing like a crystal river ; 
Bright as light, and clear as wind. 

II. 

Dark-brow'd sophist, come not naear ; 
All the place i,s holy ground ; 
Hollow smile and frozen sneer 

Come not here. 
Holy water will I pour 
Into every spicy flower 
Of the iaurel-shrubs that hedge it 

around. 
The flowers would faint at your cruel 
cheer. 
In your eye there is death, 
There is frost in your breath 
Which would blight the plants. 
Where you stand you cannot hear 
From the groves within 
The wild-bird's din. 
In the heart of the garden the merrj' 

bird chants. 
It would fall to the ground if you came 

In the middle leaps a fountain 

Like -sheet lightning, 

Ever brightening 
With a low melodious thunder; 
All day and all night it is ever drawn 
From the brain of the purple i 

tain 





The Sea-Fa irics— The Descrtcl House. 



the distance yon- 



Which s 

der: 
: springs on a level of Ijowery lawn. 
And the mountain draws it from 

Heaven above. 
And it sings a song of undying love ; 
And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and 

full. 
You never would hear it ; your ears 

are so dull ; 
So keep where vou are : vou are foui 

with sin ;' 
It would shrink to the earth if you 

came in. 



THE SEA-FAIRIES. 

Slow sail'd the weary mariners and 
saw. 

Betwixt the green brink and the run- 
ning foam. 

Sweet faces, rounded arms, and 
bosoms prest 

To little harps of gold; and while 
they mused 

Whispering to each other half in fear. 

Shrill music reach'd them on the mid- 
dle sea. 

Whither away, whither away, whither 
away ? fly no more. 

Whither away from the high green 
field, and the happy blossoming 
shore? 

iJay and night to the billow the foun- 
tain calls : 

Down shower the gambolling water- 
falls 

From wandering over the lea : 

t )ut of the live-green heart of the dells 

They freshen the silvery-crimson 
shells, 

.Vnd thick with white bells the clover- 
hill swells 
igh over the full-toned sea ; 
hither, come hither and furl your 

ume hither to me and to me : 
ither, come hitlier and frolic and 
play; 




Here it is only the mew that wails ; 
We will sing to you all the day : 
Mariner, mariner, furl your sails, 
For heie are the blissful downs ami 

dales, 
And merrily, merrily carol the gah-s. 
And the spangle dances in bight Mid 

bay. 
And the rainbow forms and flics on 

the land 
Over the islands free ; 
And the rainbow lives in the curve of 

the sand ; 
Hither, come hither and see; 
And the rainbow hangs on the poising 

wave. 
And sweet is the color of cove and 

cave. 
And sweet shall your welcome be : 
O hither, come' hither, and lie our 

lords, 
For merry brides are we : 
We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak 

sweet words : 
j O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 

With pleasure and love and jubilee : 

1 O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 

When the sharp clear twang of the 

golden chords 
Runs up the ridged sea. 
Who can light on as happy a shore 
All the world o'er, all the world o'er.' 
Whither away .' listen and stay : mari- 
ner, mariner, flv no more. 



THE DESERTED HOl'SE. 



Life and Thought have gone away 

Side by side. 

Leaving door and windows wide i 
Careless tenants thev ! 



All withm is dark as night : 
In the windows is no light; 
.\nd no murmur at the door. 
So frequent on its hinge before. 





The Dying Swan — A Dirge. 



Close the door, the shutters close, 
Or thro' the windows we shall see 
The nakedness and vacancy 

Of the dark deserted house. 



Come away: no more ot mirth 

Is here or merry-making sound. 

The house was builded of the earth, 
And shall fall again to ground. 



Come awav : for Life and Thought 
Here no longer dwell ; 
Kut in a city glorious — 
A great and distant city — have bought 

A mansion incorruptible. 
Would they could have stayed with 
us! 



THE DYING SWAN. 



The plain was grassy, wild and bare. 
Wide, wild, and open to the air, 
Which had built up everywhere 

An under-roof of doleful gray. 
With an inner voice the river ran, 
Adown it floated a dying swan, 
And loudly did lament. 

It was the m'iddle of the day. 
Ever the weary wind went on. 

And took the reed-tops as it went. 



.Some blue peaks in the distance rose, 
.^nd white against the cold-white sky- 
Shone out their crowning snows. 

One willow over the river wept, 
And shook the wave as the wind did 



Above in the wind was the swallow. 
Chasing itself at its own wild 

will, 
.\nd far thro' the marish green 

and still 




The tangled water-courses slept, 
Shot over with purple, and green, and 
. vellovv. 




The wild swan's death-hyr 



Dk th< 



Of that waste place with joy 
Hidden in sorrow : at first to the ear 
The warble was low, and full and 

clear; 
And floating about the under-sky. 
Prevailing in weakness, the coronach 



Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear; 
But anon her awful jubilant voice. 
With a music strange and manifold, 
Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold ; 
As when a mighty people rejoice 
With shawms, and with cymbals, and 

harps of gold. 
And the tumult of their acclaim is 

roll'd 
Thro' the open gates of the city afar. 
To the shepherd who watcheth the 

evening star. 
And the creeping mo.sses and clamber- 
ing weeds. 
And the willow-branches hoar and 

dank, 
And the wavy swell of the soughing 

reeds. 
And the wave-worn horns of the 

echoing bank. 
And the silvery marish-flowers that 



rong 



The desolate creeks and pools among. 
Were flooded over with eddying song. 



Now is done thy long day's 
Fold thy palms across thv 1 
Fold thine arms, turn to th 

Let them rave. 
Shadows of the silver birk 
Sweep the green that folds 

Let them rave. 





Love and Death — The Ballad of Oriana. 



Thee nor caiketh care nor slander ; 
Nothing but the small cold worm 
Fretteth thine enshrouded form. 

Let them rave. 
Light and shadow ever wander 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed; 
Chanteth not the brooding bee 
Sweeter tones than calumny .' 

Let them rave. 
Thou wilt never rai.se thine head 
From the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Crocodiles wept tears for thee ; 

The woodbine and eglatere 

Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tea 

Let them rave. 
Rain makes music in the tree 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Kound thee blow, self-pleached deep, 
Bramble roses, faint and pale, 
And long purples of the dale. 

Let them rave. 
These in every shower creep 
Thro' the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



The gold-eved kingcups fine , 
The frail bluebell peereth over 
Rare broidry of the purple clover. 

Let them rave. 
Kings have no such couch as thine, 
As the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Wild words wander here and there : 
God's great gift of speech abused 
Makes thv memory confused : 
But let them rave. 





The balm-cricket caiols clear 
In the green that folds thy grave, 
Let them rave. 



LOVE AND DEATH. 

What time the mighty moon was 
gathering light' 

Love paced the thymy plots of Para- 
dise, 

And all about him roll'd his lustrous 
eyes ; 

When, turning round a cassia, full in 
view. 

Death, walking all alone beneath a 

And talking to himself, tir.st met his 

sight : 
' You must begone,' said Death, 

' these walks are mine.' 
Love wept and spread his sheeny vans 

for flight ; 
Yet ere he parted said, ' This hour is 

thine : 
Thou art the shadow of life, and as 

the tree 
Stands in the sun and shadows all be- 
neath. 
So in the light of great eternity 
Life eminent creates the shade of 

death ; 
The shadow passeth when the tree 

shall fall. 
But I shall reign for ever over all.' 



THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. 

My heart is wasted with my woe, 

Oriana. 
There is no rest for me below, 

Oriana. 
When the long dun wolds are ribb'd 

with snow, 
And loud the Norland whirlwinds 
blow, 

Oriana, 
Alone I wander to and fro, 

Oriana. 





The Ballad of Oriana. 



the light on dark was growing, 

' a, 
At midnight the cock was crowing, 

Oriana : 

Winds were blowing, waters flowing, 
We heard the steeds to battle going, 

Oriana ; 
Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, 

Oriana. 

In the yew-wood black as night, 

Oriana, 
Ere I rode into the fight, 

Oriana, 
While blissful tears blinded my sight 
By star-shine and by moonlight, 

Oriana, 
I to thee mv troth did plight, 

Oriana. 

She stood upon the castle wall, 

Oriana : 
She watch'd my crest among them all, 

Oriana : 
She saw me fight, she heard me call, 
When forth there stept a foeman tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween me and the castle wall, 

Oriana. 

The bitter arrow went aside, 

Ori.ina : 
The false, false arrow went aside, 

Oriana : 
The damned arrow glanced aside, 
And pierced thy heart, my love, my 
bride, 

Oriana! 
Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, 

Oriana ! 

Oh ! narrow, narrow was the space, 

Oriana. 
Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, 

Oriana. 
Oh ! deathful stabs were dealt apace. 
The battle deepen'd in its place, 

Oriana ; 
But I was down upon my face, 

Oriana. 

They should have stabb'd me where I 

i^y- ^ . 

Oriana ! 





How could I rise and i 

Oriana ? 
How could I look upon the day .' 
They snould have stabb'd me where I 

Oriana 
They should have trod me into clay, 
Oriana. 

O breaking heart that will not break, 
Oriana I 

pale, pale face so sweet and meek, 

Oriana! 
Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, 
And then the tears run down my 
cheek, 

Oriana : 
What wantest thou .' whom dost thou 
seek, 

Oriana ? 

1 cry aloud : none hear my cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou comest atween me and the skies, 

Oriana. 
I feel the tears of blood arise 
Up from my heart unto my eyes, 

Oriana. 
Within thy heart my arrow lies, 

Oriana. 

O cursed hand ! O cursed blow I 
Oriana ! 

happy thou that best low, 

Oriana ! 
All night the silence seems to flow 
Beside me in my utter woe, 

Oriana. 
A weary, weary way I go, 

Oriana. 

When Norland winds pipe down the 
sea, 

Oriana, 

1 walk, I dare not think of thee, 

Oriana. 
Thou liest beneath the greenwood 

I dare not die and come to thee, 

Oriana. 
I hear the roaring of the sea. 





Circumstance — The Merman — The Mermaid. 



CIRCUMSTANCE. 



neighbor villages 
along the healthy 



Two childrer 
Playing mad 

leas; 

Two strangers meeting at a festival; 
Two lovers whispering bv an orchard 

wall ; 
Two lives bound fast in one with 

golden ease ; 
Two graves grass-green beside a gray 

church-tower, 
W'ash'd with still rains and daisy blos- 
somed ; 
Two children in one hamlet born and 

bred ; 
So runs the round of life from hour to 

hour. 



THE MERMAN. 



Who would be 
A merman bold, 
Sitting alone, 
Singing alone 
Under the sea, 
With a crown of gold, 



thr 



I would be a merman bold. 
1 would .-.It and sing the whole of the 

day ; 
I would fill the sea-halls with a voice 

of power ; 
lUit at night I would roam abroad and 

play 
With the mermaids in and out of the 

rocks. 
Dressing their hair with the white sea- 

And holding them back by their flow- 
ing locks 
would kiss them often under the sea, 
KnA kiss them again till Ihey kiss'd 



Laughingly, laughingly; 
then we would wander 
away 





To the pale-green sea-grov 
and high, 
Chasing each other 



There would be neither moon nor star; 
But the wave would make music above 

u> afar- 
Low thunder and light in the magic 

night — 
Neither moon nor .star. 
We would call aloud in the dreamv 

dells, 
Call to each other and whoop and cry 

All night, merrily, merrily ; 
'' 'ley would pelt me with starry span- 
gles and shells, 
Laughing and clapping their liands 

between. 
All night, merrily, merrily : 
But I would throw' to them back in 

mine 
Turkis and agate and almondine : 
Then leaping out upon them unseen 
I would ki.ss them often under the sea, 
And kiss them again till they kiss'd 

me 
Laughingly, laughingly. 
Oh ! what a happy life were mine 
Under the hollow-hiing ocean green I 
Soft are the moss-beds under the sea ; 
We would live merrily, merrily. 



THE MERMAID. 



W HO would be 
A mermaid fair. 
Singing alone. 
Combing her hair 



Combmg 
Under the 



In a golden curl 
With a comb of pearl 
On a throne .' 



I would be a mermaid fair ; 
would sing to myself the whole of 
the dav ; 





omh of pearl 
my hair ; 

still as I comb'd I would sing 
and say, 
■ Who is it loves iiic- ? who loves not 

me ? ' 
1 would comb my hair till my ringlets 
would fall 

Low adown, low adown. 
From under my starry sea-bud crown 

Low adown and around. 
And I should look like a fountain of 
gold 

Springing alone 
With a shrill inner sound. 

Over the throne 
In the midst of the hall; 
Till that great sea-snake under the sea 
From his coiled sleeps in the central 

deeps 
Would slowly trail himself sevenfold 
Round the hall where I sate, and look 

in at the gate 
With his large calm eyes for the love 

of me. 
And all the mermen under the sea 
Would feel their immortality 
Die in their hearts for the love of me. 



Id comb I Of the bold mer 



■men under the 



But 



night 



I would fling on each side my low- 
flowing locks. 
And lightly vault from the throne and 
play 
With the mermen in and out of the 
rocks ; 
We would run 
and seek. 
On the broad sea-wolds 

son shells. 
Whose silvery spikes are nighest 
the sea. 
But if any came near I would call, and 

shriek. 
And adown the steep like a wave I 



and fro, and hide 
the crim- 



From the diamond-ledges that jut 
from the dells ; 
For I would not be kiss'd bv all who 




In the purple twilights under the sea ; 
Hut the king of them all would carry 

Woo me, and win me, and marry me. 
In the branching jaspers under the sea; 
Then all the dry pied things that be 
In the hueless mosses under the sea 
Would curl round my silver feet 

silently. 
AH looking up for the love of me. 
And if I should carol aloud, from aloft 
All things that are forked, and horned, 

and soft 
Would lean out from the hollow sphere 

of the sea. 
All looking down for the love of me. 



Mystery of mysteries. 

Faintly smiling Adeline, 
Scarce of earth nor all divine. 
Nor unhappy, nor at rest. 

But beyond expression fair 
With thy floating flaxen hair; 
Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes 

Take the heart from out my 
breast. 
Wherefore those dim looks of thine, 
Shadowy, dreaming .'\deline ? 



Whence that aery bloom of thine, 
Like a lily which the sun 

Looks thro' in his sad decline. 
And a rose-bush leans upon. 

Thou that faintly smilest still, 
As a Naiad in a well. 



Or 



Looking at the set of day, 
phantom two hours old 



Of a maiden past away. 
Ere the placid lips be cold.' 
Wherefore those faint smiles of 
thine, 

-Spiritual Adeline ? 





Margaret. 



What hope or fear or joy is thine ? 
Who talketh with thee. Adeline ? 
For sure thou art not all alone. 
Do beating hearts of salient 
springs 
Keep measure with thine own ? 

Hast thou heard the butterflies 
What they say betwixt their 



wings 
Or in stilh 



illest evenings 
With what voice the violet woos 
To his heart the silver dews ? 
Or when little airs arise, 
How the merry bluebell rings 
To the mosses underneath ? 
Hast thou look'd upon the 
breath 
Of the lilies at sunrise ? 
Wherefore that faint smile of thine, 
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? 

IV. 

Some honey-converse feeds thy mind, 
Some spirit of a crimson rose 
In love with thee forgets to close 
His curtains, wasting odorous sighs 
All night long on darkness blind. 
What aileth thee ? whom waitest thou 
With thy soften'd, shadow'd brow, 
And those dew-lit eyes of thine, 
Thou faint smiler, Adeline i" 



Lovest thou the doleful wind 

When thou gazest at the skies ? 
Doth the low-tongued Orient 

Wander from the side of the 

Dripping with Sabaean spice 
On thv pillow, lowlv bent 

With melodious iiirs lovelorn. 

Breathing Light against thy face. 

While his locks a-drooping twined 

Round thy neck in subtle ring 
Make a carcanet of rays. 

And ye talk together still, 
Tn the language wherewith Spring 
Letters cowslips on the hill ? 
Hence that look and .smile of thine, 
Spiritu,tl Adeline. 





MARGARET, 



O SWEET pale Margaret, 
O rare pale Jlargaret, 
What lit your eyes with tearful power, 
Like moonlight on a falling shower ? 
Who lent you, love, your mortal 
dower 
Of pensive thought and aspect 

pale, 
Your melancholy sweet and frail 
As perfume of the cuckoo-flower .' 
From the westward-winding flood. 
From the evening-lighted wood, 

From all things outward you have 
won 
A tearful grace, as tho' you stood 

Between the rainbow and the sun. 
The very smile before you speak, 
That dimples your transparent 

cheek. 
Encircles all the heart, and feedeth 
The senses with a still delight 

Of dainty sorrow without sound. 
Like the tender amber round, 
W'hich the moon about her spread- 
eth. 
Moving thro' a fleecy night. 



You love, remaining peacefully. 

To hear the murmur of the strife. 
But enter not the toil of life. 

Your spirit is the calmed sea. 

Laid by the tumult of the fight. 

You are the evening star, alway 

Remaining betwixt dark and 
bright : 

Lull'd echoes of laborious day 

Come to you, gleams of mellow 

light 
Float by you on the verge of night. 



What can it matter, Margaret, 

What songs below the waning 
stars 
The lion-heart, Plantagenet, 

Sang looking thro' his prison 
bars .' 





Fxquisite Margaret, 



The last wild thought of Chatelet, 
Just ere the falling axe did part 
The burning brain from the true 
heart, 
Even in her sight he loved so 
well ? 



A fairy shield your Genius made 

And gave you on your natal day. 
Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade, 

Keeps real sorrow far away. 
You move not in such solitudes. 

You are not less divine, 
But more human in your moods. 

Than your twin-sister, Adeline. 
Your hair is darker, and your eyes 

Touch'd with a somewhat darker 
hue, 

And less aerially blue. 

But ever trembling thro' the dew 
Of dainty-woeful sympathies. 



O sweet pale Margaret, 

O rare pale Margaret, 
Come down, come down, and hear me 

speak : 
Tie up the ringlets on your cheek : 

The sun is just about to set. 
The arching limes are tall and shady. 

And faint, rainy lights are seen. 
Moving in the leavy beech. 
Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady. 

Where all day long you' sit 



betv 



Look out below your bower-eaves, 
Look down, and let your blue eyes 
dawn 
Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves. 



ROSALIND. 



Mv Rosalind, my Rosalind, 

My frolic falcon, with bright eyes. 





Whose free delight, from any height 

of rapid flight. 
Stoops at all game that wing the skies. 
My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 
My bright-eyed, wild-eyed falcon, 

whither, 
Careless both of wind and weather. 
Whither fly ye, what game spy ye, 
Up or down the streaming wind .' 



The 



lick lark's closest-caroU'd 



The shadow rushing up the sea. 
The lightning flash atween the rains, 
The sunlight driving down the lea. 
The leaping stream, the very wind. 
That will not stay, upon his way. 
To stoop the cowslip to the plains, 
Is not so clear and bold and free 
As you, my falcon Rosalind. 
You care not for another's pains, 
Because you are the soul of joy. 
Bright metal all without alloy. 
Life shoots and glances thro' your 

veins, 
And flashes off a thousand ways. 
Thro" lips and eyes in subtle rays. 
Your hawk-eyes are keen and bright. 
Keen with triumph, watching still 
To pierce me thro' with pointed light ; 
But oftentimes they flash and glitter 
Like sunshine on a dancing rill. 
And your words are seeming-bitter, 
Sharp and few, but seeming-bitter 
From excess of swift delight. 

in. 
Come down, come home, my Rosalind, 
My gay young hawk, my Rosalind : 
Too long you keep the upper skies; 
Too long you roam and wheel at will ; 
But we must hood your random eyes. 
That care not whom they kill. 
And your cheek, whose brilliant hue 
Is -SO sparkling-fresh to view. 
Some red heath-flower in the dew, 
Touch'd with sunrise. We must bind 
And keep you fast, mv Rosalind. 
Fast, fast, my wild-eyed Rosalind, 
And clip your wings, and make you 





When we have lured you from above, 
And that delight of frolic flight, by 

day or night, 
From North to South, 
We'll bind you fast in silken cords. 
And kiss away the bitter words 
1' I om off your rosy mouth. 



ELEANORE. 



English air. 

For there is nothing here, 
Which, from the outward to the 

inward brought. 
Moulded thy baby thought. 
Far off from human neighborhood, 
Thou wert born, on a summer 
morn, 
.A mile beneath the cedar-wood. 
'I'hv bounteous forehead was not 
fann'd 
With breezes from our oaken 
glades, 
But thou wert nursed in some delicious 
land 
Of lavish lights, and floating 
shades : 
And flattering thy childish thought 
The oriental fairy brought, 
At the moment of thy birth. 
From old well-heads of haunted rills, 
And the hearts of purple hills. 

And shadow'd coves on a sunnv 
shore. 
The choicest wealth of all the 
earth, 
Jewel or shell, or starry ore, 
To deck thv cradle, Eleanore. 



Or the vellow-banded bees. 
Thro" half-open lattices 
Coming in the scented breeze. 



Fed thee, a child. 





In silk-soft folds, upon yielding 

down, 
With the hum of swarming 1 

Into dreamful sliunl.ur lull'd. 



Who may minister to thee.' 
Summer herself should minister 

To thee, with fruitage golden- 
rinded 
On golden salvers, or it may be. 
Youngest Autumn, in a bower 
Grape-thicken'd from the light, and 
blinded 
With many a deep-hued bell-like 

Of fragrant trailers, when the air 

Sleepeth over all the heaven. 
And the crag that fronts the 

Even, 
All along the shadowing shore, 
Crimsons over an inland mere, 
Eleanore I 



How may fuU-sail'd verse express. 
How may measured words adore 
The full-flowing harmony 
Of thy swan-like stateliness, 
Eleanore .' 
The luxuriant symmetry 
Of thy floating gracefulness, 
Eleanore .' 
Every turn and glance of thine, 
Every lineament divine, 

Eleanore, 
And the steady sunset glow. 
That stays upon thee .' For 

in thee 
Is nothing sudden, nothing sin- 
gle; 
Like two streams of incense free 
From one censer in one shrine. 
Thought and motion mingle. 
Mingle ever. Motions flow 
To one another, even as tl.o' 
They were modulated so 

To an unheard melody. 
Which lives about thee, and a s\ 
Of richest pauses, evermore 
Drawn from each other melhnv-<l 

Who may express thee, Eleanore .■■ 




stand before thee, Eleanore ; 

thy beauty gradually untold. 
Daily and hourly, liiore and more. 
I muse, as in a trance, the while 

Slowlv, as from a cloud of gold, 
Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. 
I muse, as in a trance, whene'er 

The languors of thy love-deep 
eyes 
Float on to me. I would I were 

.So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies, 
To stand apart, and to adore. 
Gazing on thee for evermore, 
.Serene, imperial Eleanore ! 



Sometmics, with most mtensity 

Gizing, I seem to see 

Thought folded over thought, smiling 
aslee]>, 

Slowly awaken'd, grow so f ul 1 and deep 

In thy large eye's, that, overpower'd 
quite, 

I cannot veil, or droop my sight, 

But am as nothing in its light : 

.\s tho' a star, in inmost heaven set, 

Ev*n while we gaze on it, 

Should slowly round his orb, and 
slowly grow 

To a full face, there like a sun re- 
main 

Fix'd — then as slowly fade again. 

And draw itself to what it was 
before ; 
So full, so deep, so slow, 
Thought seems to come and go 
In thy large eyes, imperial Elea- 



As thunder-clouds that, hung on high, 
Roof'd the world with doubt and 
fear. 
Floating thro' an evening atmosphere, 
I Irow golden all about the sky; 
In thee all passion becomes passion- 
less, 
I'ouch'd liv thy spirit's mellowness, 
Losing his fire and active might 



Falling into a still delight. 

And luxury of contemplation : 
As waves that up a quiet cove 
Rolling slide, and Iving still 
Shadow forth the banks at 
will : 
Or sometimes they swell and move. 
Pressing up against the land, 
With motions of the outer .sea : 
And the self-same influence 
ControUeth all the soul and sense 
Of Passion gazing upon thee. 
His bow-.string slackened, languid 
Love, 
Leaning his cheek upon his hand. 
Droops both his wings, regarding 
thee. 
And so would languish evermore, 
Serene, imperial Eleanore. 



But when I see thee roam, with tresses 

unconfined. 
While the amorous, odorous wind 
Breathes low between the sunset and 
the moon ; 
Or, in a shadowy saloon. 
On silken cushions half reclined; 

I watch thy grace ; and in its 
place 
My heart a ch.irmed slumber 

While I muse upon thy face ; 
And a languid fire creeps 

Thro' my veins to all my frame, 
Dissolvingly and slowly : soon 

From thy rose-red lips my name 

Floweth ; and then, as in a swoon. 

With dinning sound my ears are 

rife. 

My tremulous tongue faltereth, 

I lose my color, I lose my breath, 

I drink the cup of a costly death, 

n'd with delirious draughts of 



Brill 



I die V 
I he; 

thee; 
Yet tell my name again 
I would be dying evermore, 
So dying ever, Eleanore. 





Early Sonnets. 



Mvlife is full of weary (lays, 

But good things have not kept aloof, 

Nor wander'd into other ways : 
I have not lack'd thy mild reproof. 

Nor golden largess of thy praise. 

And now shake hands across the 

brink 

Of that deep grave to which I go : 

Shake hands once more: I cannot 

sink 

So far — far down, but I shall know 

Thy voice, and answer from below. 



When in the darkness o\'cr me 
The four-handed mole shall scrape, 

Plant thou no dusky cypress-tree, 
Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful 

crape. 
But pledge me in the flowing grape. 

And when the sappy field and wood 
Grow green beneath the showery 
gray. 
And rugged barks begin to bud. 
And thro' damp holts new-ilush'd 

with may. 
Ring sudden scritches of the jay, 

Then let wise Nature work her will. 
And on my clay her darnel grow ; 

Come only, when the days are still, 
And at my headstone whisper low, 
And tell me if the woodbines blow. 



EARLY SONNETS. 




Ever the wonder waxeth more and 

more. 
So that we say, ' All this hath been 

before. 
All this hath been, I know not when 

or where.' 
So, friend, when first I look'd upon 

your face. 
Our thought gave answer each to 

each, so true- 
Opposed mirrors each reflecting 

each — 
That tho' I knew not in what time or 

place, 
Methought that I had often met with 



And either lived 
speech. 



:ither 



heart and 



eyes we muse 



TO 



As when with dov 
and brood. 
And ebb into a former life, or seem 
To lapse far back in some confused 

dream 

To states of mystical similitude; 
If one but speaks or hems or stirs his 



TO J. M. K. 

My hope and heart is with thee — thou 
wilt be 

A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest 

To scare church-harpies from the mas- 
ter's feast ; 

Our dusted velvets have much need of 
thee : 

Thou art no sabbath-drawler of old 
saws, 

Distill'd from some worm-canker'd 
homily; 

But spurr'd at heart with fieriest 
energy 

To embattail and to wall about thy 

With iron-worded proof, hating to 
hark 

The humming of the drowsy pulpit- 
drone 

Half God's good sabbath, while the 
worn-out clerk 

Brow-beats his desk below. Thou 
from a throne 

Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the 
dark 

Arrows of lightnings. I will stand 
and mark. 



cha 





My life is fuli. of weary days "—Page i6. 




Early Sonnets. 



Like some broad river rushing down 

alone, 
With the selfsame impulse wherewith 

he was thrown 
From his loud fount upon the echoing 

lea :— 

doth 



cape, and isle, 
And in the middle of the green salt 

sea 
Keeps his blue waters fresh for many 

a mile. 
Mine be the power which ever to its 

sway 
Will win the wise at once, and by 

degrees 
May into uncongenial spirits flow; 
Ev'n as the warm gulf-stream of 

Florida 
Floats far away into the Northern seas 
The lavish growths of southern 

Mexico. 



IV. 



ALEXANDER. 

Warrior of God, whose strong right 
arm debased 

The throne of Persia, when her Satrap 
bled 

At Issus by the .Syrian gates, or fled 

Beyond the Memmian naphtha-jiits, 
disgraced 

For ever — thee (thy pathway sand- 
erased) 

Gliding with equal crowns two ser- 
pents led 

Joyful to that palm-planted fountain- 
fed 

Ammonian Oasis in the waste. 

There in a silent shade of laurel 
brown 

Apart the Chamian Oracle divine 
Iter'd his unapproached mysteries : 

High things were spoken there, 
unhanded down ; 

Only they saw thee from the secret 



th hot cheek and kindled 





BUONAPARTE. 
He thought to quell the stubborn 

hearts of oak. 
Madman ! — to chain with chains, and 

bind with bands 
That island queen who sways the 

floods and lands 
From Ind to Ind, but in fair daylight 

woke, 
When from her wooden walls,— lit by 

sure hands, — 
With thunders, and with lightnings, 

and with smoke, — 
Peal after peal, the British battle 

broke. 
Lulling the brine against the Coptic 

sands. 
We taught him lowlier moods, when 

Elsinore 
Heard the war moan along the dis- 
tant sea. 
Rocking with shatter'd spars, with 

sudden fires 
Flamed over : at Trafalgar yet once 

more 
We taught him : late he learned 

humility 
Perforce, like those whom Gideon 

school'd with briers. 

vr. 
POLAND. 

HoviT long, O God, shall men be rid- 
den down. 
And trampled under by the last and 

least 
Of men ? The heart of Poland hath 

not ceased 
To quiver, tho' her sacred blood doth 

drown 
The fields, and out of every smoulder- 
Cries to Thee, lest brute Power be 

increased. 
Till that o'ergrown Barbarian in the 

East 
Transgress his ample bound to some 

new crown : — 
Cries to Thee, ' Lord, how long shall 

these things be ? 





Early Sonnets. 



How long this icy-hearted Mu 
Oppress the region ? ' Us, O Just and 



Forgive, who smiled when she was 

torn in three ; 
Us, who stand now, when we should 

aid the right — 
A matter to be wept with tears of 

blood ! 



Caress'd or chidden by the slender 

hand, 
And singing airy trifles this or that, 
Ijght Hope at Beauty's call would 

perch and stand. 
And run thro' every change of sharp 

and flat ; 
And Fancy came and at her pillow sat, 
When Sleep had bound her in his rosy 

band. 
And chased away the still-recurring 

gnat. 
And woke her with a lay from fairy 

land. 
But now they live with Beauty less 

For Hope is other Hope and wanders 

far. 
Nor cares to lisp in love's delicious 

creeds; 
And Fancy watches in the wilderness. 
Poor Fancy sadder than a single star. 
That sets at twilit-ht in a land of reeds. 



The form, the form alone is eloquent I 
A nobler yearning never broke her 

Than but to dance and sing, be gayly 

drest. 
And win all eyes with all accomplish- 
Yet in the whirling dances as we went, 
>ry fancy made me for a moment blest 
To find my heart so near the beau- 



That once had power to rob it of i 



A moment came the tenderness of tears, 
The phantom of a wish that once 
could move. 





A ghost of passion that no smiles rc- 

For ah ! the slight coquette, she can- 

And if you kiss"d her feet a thousand 

years, 
She still would take the praise, and 



Wan Sculptor, weepest thou to take 

the cast 
Of those dead lineaments that near 

thee lie !> 
O sorrowest thou, pale fainter, for the 

past, 
In painting some dead friend from 

memory ? 
Weep on : beyond his object Love can 

last: 
His object lives : more cause to weep 



Mv tears, no tear 


^of loxe, are flowing 


fast. 




No tears of love, 


but tears that Love 



Ah pity — hint it not in human tones. 
But breathe it into earth and close it 

up 
With secret death forever, m the pits 
Which some green Christmas crams 

with weary bones. 



Ik I were loved, as I desire to be, 
What is there in the great sphere of 

the earth. 
And range of evil between death and 

birth. 
That I should fear, — if I were loved 

bv thee .> 
All the' inner, all the outer world of 

pain 
Clear Love would pierce and cleave, 

if thou wert mine, 
As I have heard' that, sor 



the 





THITHF.R FLOCK'D at noon,"— /42i-C 2r/. 




'Twere joy, not fear, claspt hand-in- 
hand with thee, 

To wait for death — mute— care'ess of 
all ills, 

Apart upon a mountain, tho' the surge 

Of some new deluge from a thousand 

Flung leagues of roaring foam into 

the gorge 
Below us, as far on as eye could see. 



THE BRIDESMAID. 

O BRIDESMAID, ere the happy knot 

was tied, 
Thine eyes so wept that they could 

hardly see ; 
Thy sister sniled and said, ' No tears 

for me ! 




de bv 



A happy bridesmaid ni 

bride.' 
And then, the couple si: 

side, 
Love lighted down between them full 

of glee, 
And over his left shoulder laugh'd at 

thee. 
' O happy bridesmaid, make a happy 

And all at Once a pleasant truth I 

learu'd, 
For while the tender service made thee 

I loved thee for the tear thou couldst 
not hide. 

And prest thy nand, and knew the 
press return'd. 

And thought, ' My life is sick of sin- 
gle sleep : 

O happv bridesmaid, make a happy 
bride I ' 



THE PRI NCESS 

A MEDLEY. 



PROLOGUE. 



Up to the people : thither flock'd at 

noon 
His tenants, wife and child, and 

thither half 
The neighboring borough with their 

Of which he was the patron. I was 

there 
From college, visiting the son, — the 

son 
A Walter too, — with others of our set, 
Five others : we were seven at Vivian- 

place. 

.^nd me that morning Walter 
show'd the house, 
Greek, set with busts : from vases in 




Flowers of all heavens, and lovelier 
than their names. 

Grew side by side ; and on the pave- 
ment lay 

Carved stones of the Abbey-ruin in 
the park, 

Huge .Ammonites, and the first bones 
of Time : 

.And on the tables every clime and age 

Jumbled together; celts and calumets. 

Claymore and snowshoe, toys in lava, 
fans 

Of sandal, amber, ancient rosaries. 

Laborious orient ivory sphere in 
sphere, 

The cursed Malavan crease, and bat- 
tle-clubs 

From the isles of palm ; and higher 
on the walls, 

Betwixt the monstrous horns of elk 
and deer, 

His own forefathers' arms and armor 





The Princess ; A Medley. 



And ' this ' he said ' was Hugh's at 

Agincourt ; 
And that was old Sir Kalph's at As- 

calon : 

A good knight he ! we keep a chronicle 
With all about him'— which he 

brought, and I 
Dived in a hoard of tales that dealt 

with knights. 
Half-legend, half-historic, counts and 

kings 
Who laid about them at their wills 

and died ; 
And mixt with these, a lady, one that 



Her, 



.wn fair head, 

the gate, 
beat her foe 

from her wal! 



id sallying thro' 
with slaughter 



' O miracle of women,' said the book, 
'O noble heart who, being strait-be- 
sieged 
By this wild king to force her to his 



Nor bent, nor broke, 

soldier's death, 

l!ut now when all was 



shunn'd a 
was lost or seeni'd 
than mortal in the 
rm lifted, eyes on 



Her stature 

burst 
Of sunrise, her arm 

fire— ■ 
Brake with a blast of trumpets from 

the gate. 
And, falling on them like a thunder- 
bolt. 
She trampled some beneath her 

horses' heels. 
And some were whelm'dwith missiles 

of the wall. 
And some were push'd with lances 

from the rock, 
And part were drown'd within the 

whirling brook : 
O miracle of noble womanhood ! ' 





(I kept the book and 
in it) 

Down thro' the park ; strange was the 
sight to me ; 

For all the sloping pasture murmur'd, 
sown 

With happy faces and with holiday. 

There moved the multitude, a thou- 
sand heads : 

The patient leaders of their Institute 

Taught them with facts. One rear'd 
a font of stone 

And drew, from butts of water on the 
slope. 

The fountain of the moment, playing, 

A twisted snake, and now a rain of 

pearls. 
Or steep-up spout whereon the gilded 

ball 
Danced like a wisp ; and somewhat 

lower down 
A man with knobs and wires and 

vials fired 
A cannon ; Echo answer'd in her 

sleep 
From hollow fields : and here were 

telescopes 
For azure views : and there a group 

of girls 
In circle waited, whom the electric 

shock 
Dislink'd with shrieks and laughter: 

round the lake 
A little clock-work steamer paddling 

plied 
And shook the lilies : perch'd about 

the knolls 
A dozen angry models jetted steam : 
A petty railway ran : a fire-balloon 
Rose gem-like up before the dusky 

groves 
And dropt a fairy parachute and past : 
And there thro' twenty posts of tele- 
graph 
They flash'd a saucy message to and 

Between the mir 





The Princess; A Medley. 



Pure sport : a herd of boys with 

clamor bowl'd 
And stump'd the wicket ; babies roU'd 

about 
Like tumbled fruit in grass ; and men 

and maids 
Arranged a country dance, and flew 

thro' light 
And shadow, while the twangling 

violin 
Struck up with Soldier-laddie, and 

overhead 
The broad ambrosial aisles of lofty 



Strange was the sight and smack- 
ing of the time ; 

And long we gazed, but satiated at 
length 

Came to the ruins. High-arch"d and 
ivy-claspt. 

Of finest Gothic lighter than a fire. 

Thro' one wide chasm of time and 
frost they gave 

The park, the crowd, the house ; but 
all within 

The sward was trim as any garden 

And here we lit on Aunt Elizabeth, 
And Lilia with the rest, and lady 

friends 
From neighbor seats : and there was 

Ralph himself, 
A broken statue propt against the 

wall, t 
As gay as any. Lilia, wild with sport. 
Half child half woman as she was, had 

wound 
A scarf of orange rou^ the stony 

helm. 
And robed the shoulders in axosy silk. 
That made the old warriorilfrom his 

ivied nook 
Glow like a sunbeam : near his limili 

a feast 
Shone, silver-set; about it lay the 

guests, 
.'\nd there we join'd them : then the 

maiden Aunt 
Took this fair day for text, and from 
h'd ■ 





An universal culture for the crowd. 
And all things great ; but we, un- 

worthier, told 
Of college : he had climb'd across the 

spikes, 
And he had squeezed himself betwixt 

the bars, 
And he had breathed the Proctor's 

dogs ; and one 
Discuss'd his tutor, rough to common 

But honeying at the whisper of a lord ; 
And one the Master, as a rogue in 

grain 
Veneer'd with sanctimonious theory. 

But while they talk'd, above their 

heads I saw 
The feudal warrior lady-clad ; which 

brought 
My book to mind : and opening this I 

read 
Of old Sir Ralph a page or two that 

rang 
With tilt and tourney; then the tale 

of her 
That drove her foes with slaughter 

from her walls. 
And much 1 praised her nobleness, 

and ' Where," 
Ask'd Waller, patting Lilia's head 

(she lay 
Beside him) ' lives there such a woman 



Quick answer'd Lilia ' There are 
thou.sands now 
Such women, but convention beats 

It is but bringing up ; no more than 

that: 
You men have done it : how I hate 
^ you all ! 
WlgtfKere I something great I I wish I 

(^ were 
Some mighty poetess, I would shame 

you then, 
That love to keep us children ! O I 

That I were some great princess, I 

would build 
Far off from men a college like a 





And I would teach them all that men 

are taught ; 
We are twice as quick I ' And here 

she shook aside 
The hand tliat plav'd the patron with 




The Frincess; A Medley 



Mlg 



etty were 



her I 



And one said s: 

the sight 
If our old halls could change their sex, 

and Haunt 
With prudes for proctors, dowagers 

for deans, 
And sweet girl-graduates in their 

golden hair. \ 

I think they should not wear our rusty j 

gowns I 

But move as rich as Emperor-moths, I 

or Ralph ! 

Who shines so in the corner; yet I fear 
If there were many Lilias in the brood, 
However deep you might embower the 

nest, I 

Some boy would spy it.' 

At this upon the sward 
She tapt her tiny silken-sandal'd foot : 
' That's your light way ; but I would 

make it death 
For any male thing but to peep at us.' 



herself 



Petulant she spoke, 

she laugh'd ; 1 

A rosebud set with little wilful thorns. 
And sweet as English air could make 

her, she: 
But Walter hail'd a score of names 

upon her, 
And ' petty Ogress,' and ' ungrateful 

Puss,' 
And swore he long'd at college, only 

long'd. 
All else was well, for she-society. 
Thev boated and thev cricketed ; thev 

talk'd 
At wine, in clubs, of art, of politics ; 
They lost their weeks; they vext the 

souls of deans ; 
They rode ; they betted ; made a hun- 
dred friends. 
And caught the blossom of the flying 



'd the mignonette of Vivian- 
place, 




The little hearth-flower, Lilia. Thus 

he spoke. 
Part banter, part affection. 

' True,' she said, 
' We doubt not that. O yes, you 



She held it out : and as a parrot 

turns 
Up thro' gilt wires a crafty loving eye. 
And takes a lady's finger with all care. 
And bites it for true heart and not for 

harm, 
So he with Lilia's. Daintily she 

shriek'd 
And wrung it. ' Doubt my word 

again ! ' he said. 
' Come, listen ! here is proof that you 

were miss'd : 
We seven stay'd at Christmas up to 

read ; 
And there we took one tutor as to 

read: 
The hard-grained Muses of the cube 

and square 
Were out of season : never man, I 

think, 
So nioulder'd in a sinecure as he : 
For while our cloisters echo'd frosty 

feet. 
And our long walks were stript as 

bare as brooms, 
We did but talk you over, pledge you 

In wassail ; often, like as many girls — 
Sick for the hollies and the yews of 

home — 
As many little trifling Lilias — ]>lay'd 
Charades and riddles as at Christmas 

here. 
And whafs my thought and when and 

■where and how^ 
And often told a tale from mouth to 

mouth 
As here at Christmas.' 

She remember'd that : 
A pleasant game, she thought : she 

liked it more 
Than magic music, fojfeits, all the rest. 
But these — what kind of tales didmen 

tell men. 












1 
1 


/ST^ 1 l-g I \ 1 M 


>v 




_ 


The Princess; A Medley. ii " 


CJV 


She wonder'd, by themselves? 


But something made to suit with Time 






A half-disdain 


and place. 


. 








rerch'd on the pouted blossom of her 


And Gothic ruin and a Grecian house, 1 II 






cAfl iips: 


A talk of college and of ladies' rights, 0^ 






And Walter nodded at me ; ' i% began, 


A feudal knight in silken masquerade, 






Tlic rest would follow, each in turn ; 


And, yonder, shrieks and strange 






and so 


experiments 






We forged a sevenfold story. Kind ? 


For which the good Sir Ralph had 






what kind? 


burnt them all— 






Chimeras, crotchets, Christmas sole- 


This mvr a medley ! we should have 






cisms. 


him back 






.Seven-headed monsters only made to 


Who told the " Winter's tale " to do 






kill 


it for us. 






Time by the fire in winter.' 


No matter : we will say whatever 






• Kill him now. 


comes. 






The tyrant! kill him in the summer 


And let the ladies sing us, if they will. 
From time to time, some ballad or a 






too,' 






Said Lilia; 'Why not now.'' the 


song 






maiden Aunt! 


To give us breathing-space.' 






' Why not a summer's as a winter's 


So I began. 






tale? 


And the rest foUow'd : and the women 






A tale for summer as befits the time, 


sang 




1 


And something it should be to suit 


Between the rougher voices of the 






the place. 


men. 






Heroic, for a hero lies beneath. 


Like linnets in the pauses of the wind : 






Grave, solemn ! ' 


And here I give the story and the 






Walter warp'd his mouth at this 


songs. 






To something so mock-solenm, that I 








laugh'd 


' 






And Lilia woke with sudden- shrilling 


A prince I was. bhie-eved, and fair in 






mirth 


face. 






An echo like a ghostly woodpecker, 


Of temper amorous, as the first of 






Hid in the ruins; till the maiden 


Mav, 






Aunt 


With lengths of yellow ringlet, like a 


1 




(A little sense of wrong had touch'd 


girl, 


j 




her face 


For on my cradle shone the Northern 






With color) turn'd to me with 'As 


star. 






you will ; 








Heroic if you will, or what vou will, 


There lived an ancient legend in 






Or be yourself your hero if you will.' 


our house. 
Some sorcerer, whom a far-off grand- 






'Take Lilia, then, for heroine' 


sire burnt 






clamor'd he. 


Because he cast no shadow, had fore- 






' And make her some i^reat Princess, 


told. 






si.x fett high. 


Dying, that none of all our blood 






Cxrand. epic, homicidal ; and be vou 


should know 






The Prince to win her ! ' 


The shadow from the substance, and 






^ ' Then follow me, the Prince," 


that one <^ 








I answer'd, ' each be hero in his turn ! 


Should come to fight with shadows 










Seven and yet one, like shadows in a 


and to fall. 


' 








dream. — 


For so, my mother said, the storv ran 










Heroic seems our Princess as 


And, truly, waking dreams were, niore 










K, ', - 


or less, 


] 




Bl I.-3 !- I 1 Lijy 








The Princess; A Medley. 



An old and strange affection of the 



Myself too had weird seizures, Heaven 
knows what : 

On a sudden in the midst of men and 
day, 

And while I walk'd and talk'd as here- 
tofore. 



I seem'c 



among 



world of 



ghost: 

And feel myself the shadow of a dream. 

Our great court-Galen poised his gilt- 
head cane. 

And paw'd his beard, and mutter'd 
'catalepsy.' 

My mother pitying made a thousand 
prayers ; 

My mother was as mild as any saint, 

Half-canonized by all that look'd on 
her, 

So gracious was her tact and tender- 
ness : 

Hut mv good father thought a kine; a 
king; 

He cared not for the affe. 




n of the 
pedant's 



house ; 
He held his sceptre like 

To lash offence, and with long arms 

and hands 
Reach'd out, and pick'd offenders 

from the mass 
For judgment. 



No 
been 



chanced that I had 
yet in bud and blade. 



When life was 
betroth'd 
To one, a neighboring Princess : she 



:dded 



th a bootless 
.nd still from 



W as pro.xy- 
calf 

At eight years old 
time to time 

Came murmurs of her beauty from 
the South, 

And of her brethren, youths of puis- 
sance ; 

And still I wore her picture by my 
heart. 

And one dark tress ; and all around 
them both 

Sweet thoughts would swarm as bees 




But when the days drew nigh that I 

should wed, 
My father sent ambassadors with furs 
And jewels, gifts, to fetch her: these 

brought back 
A present, a great labor of the loom ; 
And therewithal an answer vague 

as wind : 
Kesides, they saw the king ; he took 

the gifts ; 
He said there was a compact; that 

was true : 
But then she had a will; was he to 

blame .' 
And maiden fancies; loved to live 



That morning in the presence rooni 

I stood 
With Cyril and with Florian, my two 

friends : 
The first a gentleman of broken means 
(His father's fault) but given to starts 

and bursts 
Of revel ; and the last, my other heart. 
And almost my halt-self, for still we 

moved 
Together, twinn'd as horse's ear and 

eye. 

Now, while thev spake, I saw mv 
father's face 
Grow long and troubled like a rising 

Inflamed with wrath : he started on 

his feet. 
Tore the king's letter, snow'd it down, 

and rent 
The wonder of the loom thro' warp 

and woof 
From skirt to skirt ; and at the last 

he sware 
That he would send a hundred thou- 
sand men, 
.And bring her in a whirlwind : then 

he chew'd 
The thrice-turn'd cud of wrath, and 

cook'd his spleen. 
Communing with his captains of the 

war. 





I'lu Frincess ; A Medley. 



spoke : ' My father, let me go. 
cannot be but some gross error lies 
this report, this answer of a king, 
\V honi all men rate as kind and hospit- 
able : 
t)r, maybe, 1 myself, my bride once 

seen, 
Whate'er my grief to find her less 

than fame, 
May rne the bargain made.' And 

Florian said : 
• I have a sister at the foreign court. . 
Who moves about the Princess; she, 

you know, 
Who wedded with a nobleman from 

thence : 
He, dying lately, left her, as I hear. 
The lady of three castles in that land : 
Thro' her this matter might be sifted 

clean.' 
And Cyril whisper'd : ' Take me with 




vhat, if these weird 



whisper'd : 

you too.' 
Than laughing 

seizures come 
Upon you in those lands, and no one 

near 
To point you out the shadow from the 

truth ! ' 

Take me : I'll serve you better in a 

strait ; 
I grate on rustv hinges here : ' but 

' No ! ■ ' 
Roar'd the rough king, ' you shall not ; 

we ourself 
Will crush her pretty maiden fancies 

dead 
In iron gauntlets : break the council 



Hut when the council broke, I rose 

and past 
Thro' the wild woods that hung about 

the town : 
Found a still place, and pluck'd her 

likeness out ; 
Laid it on flowers, and watch'd it ly- 
ing bathed 
In the green gleam of dewy-tassell'd 

trees : 
What were those fancies ? wherefore 

break her troth ? 
Proud look'd the lips : but while I 

meditated 




e wild woods together ; and a 
with it, ' Follow, follow, thou 



Then, ere the silver sickle of that 
month 
Became her golden shield, I stole from 

With Cyril and with Floriau, unper- 

ceived, 
Cat-footed thro' the town and half in 

dread 
To hear my father's clamor at our backs 
With Ho! from some bay-window 

shake the night ; 
But all was quiet : from the bastion'd 

walls 
Like threaded spiders, one by one, we 

dropt. 
And Hying reach'd the frontier : then 



To: 



nd ; and sobv tilth and 



And vines, and blowing bosks of 

wilderness. 
We gain'd the mother-city thick with 

towers. 
And in the imperial palace found the 

king. 



Hi 



: was Gama; crack'd and 
ink- 



But bland the smile that like 
ing wind 

On glassy water drove his cheek in 
lines; 

A little dry old man, without a star. 

Not like a king : three days he feasted 
us, 

And on the fourth I spake of why we 
came, 

And mv betroth'd. ' You do us, 
Prince,' he said, 

Airing a snowy hand and signet gem, 

'All honor. We remember love our- 
selves 

In our sweet youth : there did a com- 
pact pass 





2'he Princess; A Medley. 



Long summers back, a kind o£ cere- 
mony — 
I think the year in which our olives 

I would you had her, Prince, with all 

mv heart, 
With my full heart : but there were 

'I'wo widows. Lady rsvche, Ladv 

Blanche ; 
They fed her theories, in and out of 

place 
Maintaining that with equal hus- 
bandry 
The woman were an equal to the man. 
They harp'd on this ; with this our 

banquets rang; 
Our dances broke and buzz'd in knots 

of talk; 
Nothing but this ; my very ears were 

hot 
To hear them : knowledge, so my 

daughter held, 
Was all in all : they had but been, she 

thought. 
As children ; they must lose the child, 

assume 
The woman : then, .Sir, awful odes she 



Too 



vful, sure, for what thev treated 



But all she is and does is awful ; odes 
About this losing of the child ; and 

rhymes 
And dismal lyrics, prophesying change 
Beyond all reason : these the women 

sang ; 
And they that know such things — I 

sought but peace ; 
No critic I — would call them master- 
pieces: 
They master'd me. At last she begg'd 

a boon, 
.'\ certain summer-palace which I have 
Hard by your father's frontier : I said 



no. 



Yet being an 



All wild to found an University 

naidens, on the spur she fled ; 
and more 
We know not, — only this : they see no 




1 gave 



and 




Not ev'n her brother Ar; 

twins 
Her brethren, tho' they 

look upon her 
As on a kind of paragon ; and I 
(Pardon me saying it) were much loth 

to breed 
Dispute betwixt myself and mine : 

but since 
(And I confess with right) you think 

me bound 
Jn some sort, I can give you letters to 

her; 
And yet, to speak the truth, I rate 

your chance 
Almost at naked nothing.' 

Thus the king; 
And I, tho' nettled that lie seem'd to 

slur 
With garrulous ease and oily cour- 

Our formal compact, yet, not less (all 

frets 
But chafing me on fire to find my 

bride) 
Went forth again with both my 

friends. We rode 
Many a long league back to the North. 

At last 
From hills, that look'd across a land 

of hope. 
We dropt with evening on a rustic 

Set in a gleaming river's crescent- 
curve. 

Close at the boundary of the liber- 
ties; 

There, enter'd an old hostel, call'd 
mine host 

To council, plied him with his richest 



And show'd the I 



; letters of the 



.Averring it was clear against all rules 
For any man to go : but a.s his brain 
Began to mellow, ' If the king,' he 
j said, 

' Had given us letters, was he bound to 
speak .> 





The Princess: A Medley 



all hi; 



' No di)ubt that we might make it 

worth his while. 
She once had past that way ; he heard 

her speak ; 
She scared him; life! he never saw 

the like ; 
She look'd as grand as doomsday and 

as grave : 
And he, he reverenced his liege-lady 

there; 
He always made a point to post with 

mares ; 
His daughter and his housemaid were 

the boys : 
The land, he understood, for miles 

about 
Was till'd by women; all the swine 

were sows, 
And all the dogs ' — 

But while he jested thus, 
A thought flash'd thro' me which I 

clothed in act, 
Remembering how we three presented 

Maid 
Or Nymph, or Goddess, at high tide 

of feast. 
In masque or pageant at my father's 



to purchase female 
himself, a sight to 



gear; 
He brought 

shake 
The midriff of despair with laugiiter, 

holp 
To lace us Qp, till, each, in maiden 

plumes 
We rustled : him we gave a costly 

bribe 
To guerdon silence, mounted our good 

steeds, ^ 

And boldly ventured on the liberties. 

We foUow'd up the river as we rode. 
And rode till midnight when the 

college lights 
Hegan to glitter (irefly-like in co])se 
,\nd linden alley: then we past an arch. 
Whereon a woman-statue rose with 
wings 





And some inscription ran along the 

front, 
But deep in shadow : further on we 

gain'd 
A little street half garden and half 

house ; 
But scarce could hear each other speak 

for noise 
Of clocks and chimes, like silver 

hammers falling 
On silver anvils, and the splash and 

stir 

rid shower- 
In meshes of the jasmine and the rose : 
And all about us peai'd the nightin- 



There stood a bust of Pallas for a 

sign, 
By two sphere lamps blazon'd like 

Heaven and Earth 
With constellation and with continent. 
Above an entry ; riding in, we call'd ; 
A plump-arm'd Ostlercss and a stable 

wench 
Came running at the call, and help'd 

us down. 
Then slept a buxom hostess forth, and 

sail'd. 
Full-blown, before us into rooms 

which gave 
Upon a pillar'd porch, the bases lost 
In laurel : her we ask'd of that and 



And who were tut 
she said. 



Lady Blanche 
• Which wa. 



' And Lady Psyche 

prettiest, 
Best-iiatured ? ' ' Lady Psyche.' 'Hers 

are we,' 
One voice, we cried ; and I sat down 

and wrote. 
In such a hand as when afield of corn 
Bows all its ears before the roaring 





The Princess : A Medley. 



Your Higliiies.s wuuld enroll them with 
As Lady I'sychc's pupils.' 



And o'er Ins head Uraniau Venus 

And raised the blinding bandage from 
his eyes : 

I gave the letter to be sent with dawn ; 

And then to bed, where half in doie I 
secm'd 

To float about a glimmering night, 
and watch 

A full sea glazed with muffled moon- 
light, swell 

On some dark shore just seen that it 
was rich. 



.^nd pluck'd ihe ripen'd ears. 
We fell out. my wife and I, 
O we fell out I know not why, 

And kiss'd again with tears, 
.^nd blessings on the falling out 

Th.1t all the more endears. 
When we fall out with those we love 

For when we came where lies the child 

We lost in olher years. 
There above the little grave, 
O there above the little grave. 

We kiss'd ag,iin with tears. 

At break of day the College Portress 
came: 

She brought us Academic silks, in hue 
The lilac, with a silken hood to each, 
And zoned with gold; and now when 

these were on. 
And we as rich as moths from dust 

cocoons, 
She, curtseying her obeisance, let us 



The Princess Ida waited : out we 

paced, 
I first, and following thro' the porch 





Compact of lucid marbles, boss'd with 

lengths 
Of classic frieze, with ; 



betwixt 'the pillars, and with great 

urns of flowers. 
The Muses and the Graces, group'd 

in threes, 
Enring'd a billowing fountain in the 

midst ; 
And here and there on lattice edges lav 
Ur book or lute ; but hastily we pasti 
And up a flight of stairs into the hall. 



There at a board by t 



I pai)( 



With two tame leopards couch'd 
beside her throne 

All beauty c6mpass'd in a female form. 

The Princess ; liker to the inhabitant 

Of some clear planet close upon the 
Sun, 

Than our man's earth ; such eyes were 
in her head, 

And so much grace and power, breath- 
ing down 

From over her arch'd brows, with 

Lived thro' her to the tips of her long 

hands. 
And to her feet. She rose her height. 



' We give you welcome : not without 
redound 
Of use and glory to yourselves ye 

The first fruits of the stranger : after- 

And that full voice which circles 

round the g^ave. 
Will rank you nobly, mingled up with 

What ! are the ladies of your land so 

tall? ' 
' We of the court ' said Cyril. ' From 

the court ' 
She answer'd, 'then ye know the 

Prince .' ' and he : 
' The climax of his age ! as Iho' ther^ 

were 
One rose in all the world, your 

ness that. 










i 




^<TT1 1 l-g 


I 1 (-4^ 


X 




[ 


The Frinccss 


,• A Medley. 39 " 


—1 


He worships your ideal : ' she replied : 


The foundress of the Habvlonian wall, 






' We scarcely thought in our own hall 


The Carian Artemisia strong in war. 










to hear 


The Khodope, that built the pyramid, 








^ This barren verbiage, current among 


Clelia, Cornelia, with the Palmyrene «^ 
That fought Aurelian, and the Roni.^n 






Light coin, the tinsel clinli of compli- 


brows 








Of Agrippina. Dwell with these, and 






Your flight i'om out your bookless 


lose 






wilds would seem 


Convention, since to look on noble 






As arguing love of knowledge and of 


forms 






power ; 


Makes noble thro' the sensuous 






Your language proves vou still the 


organism 






chifd. Indeed, ' 


That which is higher. lift your 






We dream not of him : when we set 


natures up: 






our hand 


Embrace our aims; work out your 






To this great work, we purposed with 


freedom. Girls, 






ourself 


Knowledge is now no more a fountain 






Never to wed. You likewise will do 


seal'd : 






well, 


Drink deep, until the habits of the 






Ladies, in entering here, to cast and 


slave. 






fling 


The sins of emptiness, gossip and 






The tricks, which make us toys of 


spite 






men, that so, 


And slander, die. Better not be at all 






Some future time, if so indeed you will. 


Than not be noble. Leave us: 






You may with those self-styled our 


you mav go : 






lords allv 


To-day the Lady Psvche will harangue 






Your fortunes, justlier balanced, scale 


The fresh arrivals of the week before ; 






with scale; 


For they press in from all the prov- 
inces, 






At those high words, we conscious 
of ourselves. 


And fill the hive.' 






She spoke, and bowing waved 






Perused the matting ; then an officer 


Dismissal : back again we crost the 






Rose u]), and read the statues, such as 


court 






these : 


To Lady Psyche's : as we enter'd in. 
There sat alone the forms, like morn- 






Not for three years to correspond with 






home ; 


ingdovel 






Not for three years to cross the liber- 


That sun their milky bosoms on the 






ties ; 


thatch. 






Not for three vears to speak with any 


A patient range of pupils ; she herself 






men ; 


Erect behind a desk of satin-wood 






And manv more, which hastily sub- 


A quick brunette, well-moulded, falcon 






scribed. 


eyed. 






We enter- d on the boards : and ' Now,' 


And on the hither side, or so she 






she cried. 


look'd. 






' Ye are green wood, see ve warp not. 


Of twenty summers. At her left, a 
child. 






Look, our hall ! 






Our statues!— not of those that men 


In shining draperies, headed like a ^^ 








Sleek Odalisques, or oracles of mode. 


Her maiden babe, a double April old, 










JSIor stunted squaws of West or East ; 


Aglaia slept. We sat: the Lady 










but she 


glanced : 










That taught the Sabine how to rule. 


Then Florian, but no livelier than the 








" 


and she 

K, , , 


dame 






y. 


IH-I 1 S 


M 1 £b 












I'hat whisper'd ' Asses ' ears,' among 

the sedge, 
Mv sister,' 'Comelv, too, 1>v all that's 



Said Cvril. ' O hush. 


lUsh ! ' and she 


began. 




' This world was on 


ce a fluid haze 


o£ l.ght. 




Till toward the centre 


set the starry 


tides. 




And eddied into suns 


that wheeling 



The planets : then the monster, then 

the man ; 
Tattoo'd or woaded, winter-clad in 



the prime, and crushing 
ind in barbarous isles, and 



Raw froi 

do 
As yet we fi 

here 
Among tlie lowest.' 

Thereupon she took 
A bird's-eve-viewof all the 



Glanced at the legendary Amazon 
As emblematic of a nobler age ; 
.Appraised the Lycian custom, spoke 

of those 
That lay at wine with Lar and 

Ran down the Persian, Grecian, Ro- 
man lines 
Of empire, and the woman's state in 

each. 
How far from just ; till warming with 

her theme 
She fulmined out her scorn of laws 

Salique 
And little-footed China, touch'd on 

Mahomet 
With much contempt, and came to 

chivalry: 
When some respect, however slight, 

was paid 
To woman, superstition all awry: 
However then commenced the dawn : 

a beam 
Had slanted forward, falling in a land 
i)i promise; fruit would follow. 

Deep, indeed. 
Their debt of thanks to her who first 





A McaVc-v. 



To leap the rotten pales of prejudice. 
Uisyoke their necks from custom, aiul 

assert 
None lordlier than themselves but that 

which made 
Woman and man. She had founded ; 

they must build 
Here might they learn whatever men 

were taught : 
Let them not fear : some said their 

heads were less : 
Some men's were small ; not they the 

For often fineness compensated size : 
Besides the brain was like the hand, 

and grew 
With using ; thence the man's, il more 

was more ; 
He took advantage of his strength to 

be 
First in the field : some ages had been 

lost; 
But woman ripen'd earlier, and her 

life 
Was longer ; and albeit their glorious 

names 
Were fewer, scatter'd stars, yet since 

in truth 
The highest is the measure of the 

And not the Kaffir, Hottentot. Malav, 
Nor those horn-handed breakers ui 

the glebe. 
But Homer, Plato, Verulam ; even so 
With woman: and in arts of govern- 
ment 
Elizabeth and others; arts of war 
The peasant Joan and others; arts of 

grace 
Sappho and others vied with any man : 
And, last not least, she who had left 

her place. 
And bow'd her state to them, that they 

might grow 
To use and power on this Oasis, lapt 
In the arms of leisure, sacred from the 

blight 
Of ancient influence and scorn. 

At last 
-She rose upon a wind of prophecy 
Dilating on the future; 'everywhere 
Two heads in council, two beside the 

hearth, 





The Princess; A Medley. 



Two in the tangled business of the 

world, 
Two ill the liberal offices of life, 
Two plummets dropt for one to sound 

the abyss 
Of science, and the secrets of the 

mind ; 
Musician, painter, sculptor, critic, 

more : 
And everywhere the broad and boun- 

teo'us Earth 
Should bear a double growth of those 



Ills, 



She ended here, and beckon'd us : 
the rest 

Parted ; and, glowing full-faced wel- 
come, she 

Began to address us, and was moving 

In gratulation, till as when a boat 
Tacks, and the slacken'd sail flaps, all 

her voice 
Faltering, and fluttering in her throat, 

she cried 
' My brother ! ' • Well, my sister.' ' O," 

she said, 
' What do you here .' and in this dress ? 

and'these.> 
Whv who are these ? a wolf within the 

fold ! 
A pack of wolves ! the Lord be gra- 
cious to me ! 
.■\ plot, a plot, a plot, to ruin all ! ' 
' No plot, no plot,' he answer'd. 

' Wretched boy, 
How saw you not the inscription on 

the gate, 
Let no man enter in on pain 

OF DEAl'H .> ' 
' And if I had,' he answer'd, ' who 

could think 
The softer Adams of your Academe 
O sister, Sirens tho' they be, were 

such 
As chanted on the blanching bones of 

men .' ' 
' "ijut you will find it otherwise,' she 

said. 
' You jest : ill jesting with edge-tools! 





Hinds me to speak, and O that iron will 
'I'hat axelike edge unturnable, our 

Head, 
The Princess.' ■ Well then. Psyche, 

take my life. 
And nail me like a weasel on a grange 
For warning: bury me beside the 

gate. 
And cut this epitaph above my bones: 
Hc-re lies ti brother by a sister slain^ 
All for the common good of wotnan- 

' Let me die loo,' said Cyril, ' having 

seen 
And heard the Lady Psyche.' 

1 struck in : 
' Albeit so mask'd. Madam, I love the 

truth; 
Receive it ; and in me behold the 

Prince 
Your countryman, affianced years ago 
To the Lady Ida : here, tor here she 

was. 
And thus (what other way was left) I 

came.' 
' O Sir, O Prince, I have no country ; 

none ; 
If any, this ; but none. Whate'er I 

was 
Disrooted, what I am is grafted here. 
Affianced, Sir.' love-whispers may 

not- breathe 
Within this vestal limit, and how 

should I, 
Who am not mine, say, live : the 

thunder-bolt 
Hangs silent ; but prepare : I speak ; 

it falls.' 
' Yet pause,' I said : ' for that inscrip- 



ther: 



think no i 



Df deadly lurks ihere- 



Than in a clapper clapping in a garth. 
To scare the fowl from fruit : if more 

there be. 
If more and acted on, what follows ? 

Your own work marr'd : for this your 

.■\cademe. 
Whichever side be Victor, in the 

halloo 
Will top|)le to the trumpet down, and 

pass 





I shuddei at the sequel, but I go.' 

' Are you that Lady Psyche,* I re- 

join'd, 
'The fifth in line from that old 

Florian, 
Yet hangs his portrait in inv father's 

hall 
(The gaunt old Baron with his beetle 

brow 
Sun-shaded in the heat of dusty fights) 
As he bestrode uiy Grandsire, when he 

fell 
And all else fled ? we point to it, and 

we say, 
The loyal warmth of Florian is not 

cold. 
Hut branches current yet in kindred 

veins.' 
' Are you that Psvche,' Florian added ; 

'she 
With whom I sani; about the morning 

hills, 
Flung ball, flew kite, and raced the 

purple fly. 
And snared the squirrel of the glen > 

That Psyche, wont to bind my throb- 
bing brow. 

To smoothe niv pillow, mix the foam- 
ing draught 

Of fever, tell me pleasant tales, and 
read 

My sickness down to happy dreams .' 
are you 

That brother-sister Psyche, both in 

You were that Psyche, but what are 

you now ? ' 
' You are that Psyche,' Cyril said, 

* for whom 
I would be that for ever which I 



Woman, if I might sit beside your 

feet. 
And glean vour scatter'd sapience.' 

Then once more, 




' That on her bridal morn before she 
past 

From all her old companions, when 
the king 

Kiss'd her pale cheek, declared that 
ancient ties 

Would still be dear beyond the south- 
ern hills; 

That were there any of our ])eople 



In wan 

h 
And help them r 

these and I.' 
'A re you that Psyche,' Floric 

In gentler days, your arrow- 



peril, there was one to 

for such are 

sk'd, 

iided 

Came flying while vou sat beside the 

well } 
The creature laid his muzzle on your 

lap, 
And sobb'd, and you sobb'd with it, 

and the blood 
Was sprinkled on your kirlle, and you 

wept. 
That was fawn's blood, not brother s, 

yet you wept. 
O bv the bright head of my little 



! that Psyche, and what are 
' Cyril said 
veetest little 



' You are that Psyc 

again, 
'The mother of the 

maid. 
That ever crow'd for kisses.' 

' Out upon it I ' 
She answer'd, ' jieace ! and why should 

I not play 
The Spartan Moth( 



be 



of mv 



The Lucius Junius 
kind ? 

Him you call great: he for the com- 
mon weal. 

The fading politics of mortal Rome, 

As I might slay this child if good 
need were. 

Slew both his sons: and I, shall I, on 
whom 














^<in 1 1 ■:> ? \ 1 rvi 


y^ 






Z— : 


K 

The Princess 


■ )4 

; A Medley. 43 


\ 




The secular emancipation turns 


' I brought a message here from Lady 




0£ half this world, be swerved from 


IJIanche. 


. 






right to save 


Back started she, and turning round 


r 






t^ A prince, a brother ? a little will I 


we saw «AJ 






yield. 


The Lady Blanche's daughter where 






Best so, perchance, for us, and well 


she stood. 








Melissa, with her hand upon the lock, 






O hard, when love and duty clash ! I 


A rosy blonde, and in a college gown. 






fear 


That clad her like an April daffodilly 






My conscience will not count me 


(Her mother's color) with her lips 






fleckless; vet- 


apart. 






Hear my conditions : promise (other- 


And all her thoughts as fair within 






wise 


her eves. 






You perish) as you came, to slip away 


As bottom 'agates seen to wave and 






To-day, to-morrow, soon : it shall be 


float 






said. 


In crystal currents of clear morning 






These women were too barbarous, 


' seas. 






would not learn; 








They fled, who might have shamed 


So stood that same fair creature at 






us: promise, all.' 


the door. 
Then Lady Psyche, 'Ah— Melissa— 






"What could we else, we promised 


you! 






each ; and she, 


You heard us.'' and Melissa, ' O par- 






Like some wild creature newly-caged, 


don me 






commenced 


I heard, I could not help it, did not 






A to-and-fro, so pacing till she paused 


wish : 


1 




Hv Klorian ; holding out her lily arms 


But, dearest Ladv, prav you fear me 






Took both his hands, and smiling 


not. 






faintlv, said: 


Nor think I bear that heart within my 






• [ knew you at the first : tlio' you 


breast. 






have grown 


To give three gallant gentlemen to 






You scarce have alter'd: I am sad 


death.' 






and glad 


' I trust you,' said the other, ' for we 






To see you, Florian. / give thee to 


two 






death 


Were always friends, none closer, 






Mv brother! it was duty spoke, not I. 


elm and vine : 






M'v needful seeming harshness, par- 


But yet your mother's jealous temper- 






don it. 


ament- 






Our mother, is she well ? ' 


Let not your prudence, dearest. 






With that she kiss'd 


drowse, or prove 






His forehead, then, a moment after. 


The Dan aid of a leaky vase, for fear 






clung 


This whole foundation ruin, and I 






.\bout him, and betwixt them blos- 


lose 






som'd up 


My honor, these their lives.' 'Ah, 






From out a common vein of memory 


fear me not,' 






Sweet household talk, and phrases of 


Replied Melissa; ' no— I would not 






„ the hearth, 


tell, ^ 






'^ And far allusion, till the gracious 


No, not for all Aspasia's cleverness. 








dews 


No, not to answer. Madam, all those 








ISegan to glisten and to fall: and 


hard things 








while 


That Sheba came to ask of Solomon.' 








They stood, so rapt, we gazing, came 


• Be it so,' the other, ' that we still 




1 


V; 


K, ,' 


may lead 






^<LU-t 4=^ ir=d;=^=i*jy 














The Princess ; A Medley. 



The new light up 

peace, 
For Solomon may coi 

yet.' 
Said Cyril, ' Madam, 1 



d culminate in 
Sheba 

he the wisest 
wisest then, in 

nor should you 



Feasted the woman 

halls 
Of Lebanouian cedar 
(Tho' Madam vou should answer, we 

would ask) 
Less welcome thid among us, if you 

Among us, debtors for our lives to 

you. 
Myself for something more.' He 

said not what. 
But 'Thanks,' she answer'd 'Go: 

we have been too long 
Together : keep your hoods about 

the face ; 
They do so that affect abstraction 

here. 
Speak little ; mix not with the rest ; 

and hold 
Your promise : all, I trust, may yet 

be well.' 

We turn'd to go, but Cvril took the 

child, 
And held her round the knees against 

his waist. 
And blew the swoH'n check of a 

trumpeter. 
While Psyche watch'd them, smilmg, 

and the child 
Push'd her flat hand against his face 

and laugh'd ; 
And thus our conference closed. 

And then we stroll'd 
For half the day thro' stately thea- 
tres 
Bench'd crescent wise. In each we 

sat, we heard 
The grave Professor. On the lecture 

slate 
The circle rounded under female hands 
With flawle.ss demonstration : fol- 

low'd then 
A classic lecture, rich in sentiment. 
With scraps of thundrous Epic lilted 




By violet-hooded Doctors, elegi( 



And quoted ( 

words-lo 

That on the sti 



;s, and jewels fiv 
ch'd forefinger of a 



Sparkle for ever : then we dipt in all 
That treats of whatsoever is, the state. 
The total chronicles of man, the 

mind. 
The morals, something of the frame, 

the rock. 
The star, the bird, the fish, the shell, 

the flower. 
Electric, chemic laws, and all the rest, 
And whatsoever can be taught and 

known ; 
Till like three horses that have broken 

lence, 
And glutted all night long breast-deep 

in corn. 
We issued gorged with knowledge, 

and I spoke : 
' Why, Sirs, they do all this as well as 

•They hunt old trails' said Cyril 

' very well ; 
But when did woman ever yet invent ? ' 
'Ungracious!' answer'd Florian; 

' have you learnt 
No more from Psvche's lecture, you 

that talk'd 
The trash that made me sick, and al- 

' O trash ' he said, ' 

Should I not call h. 



but with a kernel 

:r wise, who made 

me wise .' 
And learnt ? I learnt more from her 

in a flash. 
Than if my brainpan were an empty 

hull. 
And every Muse tumbled a science in. 
A thousand hearts lie fallow in these 

halls, 
And round these halls a thousand 

baby loves 
Fly twanging headless arrows at the 

hearts, 
Whence follows manv a vacant pang; 

but O 
With me. Sir, enter'd in the bigger 

bov. 





The Fritiass; A Medley. 



The loiig-lirab'd lad that had a Psyche 
He cleft me thro' the stomacher ; and 

What think you of it, Florian ? do I 

chase 
The substance or the shadow ? will it 

hold ? 
I have no sorcerer's malison on me. 
No ghostly hauntings like his High- 
ness. I 
Flatter myself that always everywhere 
I know the substance when I see it. 

Well, 
Are castles shadows ? Three of 

them .'' Is she 
The sweet proprietress a shadow ? 

If not, 
Shall those three castles patch my 

talter'd coat .' 
For dear are those three castles to 

my wants, 
And dear is sister Psyche to my heart. 
And two dear things are one of double 

worth. 
And much I might have said, but 

that my zone 
Unmann'd me : then the Doctors! O 



watch the thirsty 
ice I thought to 
hake my 



The Doctors ! O t 

plants 
Imbibing ! once or 



To break my chain, 

mane : but thou. 
Modulate me. Soul of mincing mimic- 
Make liquid treble of that bassoon, 

my throat : 
Abase those eyes that ever loved to 

Star-sisters answering under crescent 

brows ; 
Abate the stride, which speaks of 

man, and loose 
A flying charm nf blushes o'er this 

cheek. 
Where they like swallows coming out 

of time 
Will wonder why they came : but 

hark the bell 
For dinner, let us go ! ' _ 





Among the columns, 

still 
By twos and threes, 

to end 
With beauties every shade of brown 

and fair 
In colors gayer than the morning 

The long hall glitter'd like a bed of 

flowers. 
How might a man not wander from 

his wits 

with eyes, but that I 

who wrapt in glorious 

The second sight of some Astraean 

age, 
Sat compass'd with professors : they, 

the while, 
Discuss'd a doubt and tost it to and 

fro : 
A clamor thicken'd, mixt with inmost 

Of art and science . Lady Blanche 

alone 
Of faded form and haughtiest liuea- 



Pierced thr 
kept, 



tresses falsely 



With all her autumn 
brown. 

Shot sidelong daggers at us, a tiger- 
cat 

In act to spring. 

At last a solemn grace 

Concluded, and we sous^ht the gar- 
dens: there 

One walk'd reciting by herself, and 

In this hand held a volume as to read, 
And smoothed a petted peacock down 

with that : 
Some to a low song oar'd a shallop by. 
Or under arches of the marble bridge 
Hung, shadow'd from the heat : some 

hid and sought 
In the orange thickets : others tost a 

ball 
Above the fountain-jets, and back 

again 
With laughter : others lav about the 

lawns. 
Of the oldei 

their May 





The Princess; A Medley. 



Was passing : what was learning i 



They wish'd to many ; they could 

rule a house ; 
Men hated learned women : but we 

three 
Sat mufHed like the Fates; and often 

came 
Melissa hitting all we saw with shafts 
Uf gentile satire, kin to charily, 
That harm'd not : then day droopt ; 

the chapel bells 
Call'd us: we left the walks ; we mixt 

with those 
Six hundred maidens clad in purest 



vhite 



Befor 



of light from wall 



While the great organ almost burst 

his pipes, 
Groaning for power, and rolling thro' 

the court 
A long melodious thunder to the 

sound 
Of solemn psalms, and silver litanies, 
The work of Ida, to call down from 

Heaven 
A blersin" on her labors for the world. 



Wind of the western sea, 
Low, low, breathe and blow. 

Wind of the western sea! 
Over the rolling waters go. 
Come from the dying moon, and blow, 

While my little one, while my pretty c 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 
Father will come to thee soon ; 

Rest, rest, on mother's breast. 
Father will come to thee soon. 

Father will come to his babe in the nest 



Under the 
Sleep, my lii 




, sleep, my pretty 
Morn in the white wake of the m 




all the orien 



Came furrowi 

gold. 
We rose, and each by other drest with 

care 
Descended to the court that lay three 

parts 
In shadow, but the Muses' heads were 



There while we stood beside the 
fount, and watch'd 

Or seem'd to watch the dancing bub- 
ble, approach'd 

Melissa, tinged with wan from lack of 
sleep. 

Or grief, and glowing round her dewy 
eyes 

The circled Iris of a night of tears ; 

' And fiy,' she cried, ' O fly, while yet 
you may ! 

Mv mother knows ; ' and when I ask'd 
her ' how,' 

' My fault ' she wept ' my fault ! and 

Yet inine in part. O hear me, pardon 
me. 

from night 



My mother, 'tis he 

to night 
To rail at Lady Psyche and her side. 
She says the Princess should have 

been the Head, 
Herself and Lady Psyche the two 

And so it was agreed when first they 

came ; 
But Ladv Psyche was the right hand 

And she the left, or not, or seldom used; 
Hers more than half the students, all 

the love. 
And so last night she fell to canvass 



you 
Her countr 



her. 



she di( 



" Who ever saw such wild barbar 
Girls ? — more like men ! " and at 

words the snake. 
My secret, seem'd to stir within my 





The Princess; A Medley. 



Legan to burn and burn, and her lynx 
eye 

To fix and make me hotter, till she 
laugh'd : 

" () marvellously modest maiden, you ! 

Men! girls, like'men ! why, if they had 
been men 

Vou need not set your thoughts in ru- 
bric thus 

For wholesale comment." Pardon, I 
am shamed 

That I must needs repeat for my ex- 
cuse 

What looks so little graceful : " men " 
(for still 

Mv mother went revolving on the 
word) 

" And so thev are. — very like men in- 
deed— 

And with thai woman closeted for 
hours ! " 

Then came these dreadful words out 
one by one, 

"Why — these — are — men:" I shud- 
der'd : " and you know it." 

"O ask me nothing," I said: "And 
she knows too. 

And she conceals it." So my mother 
clutch'd 

The truth at once, but with no word 
from me ; 

And now thus early risen she goes to 
inform 

The Princess: Lady Psyche will be 

But vou mav vet be saved, and there- 
fore fly : • 

But heal me with your pardon ere you 
go-' 
' What pardon, sweet Melissa, for 
ablush?' 

Said Cyril: 'Pale one, blush again: 
than wear 

Those lilies, better blush our lives 
away. 

\ et let us breathe for one hour more 

He added, ' lest some classic Angel 

speak 
In scorn of us, " They mounted, Gany- 

niedes. 
To tumble, Vulcans, on the second 





But I will melt this marble i 

To yield us farther furlough : ' and he 



Melissa shook her doubtful curls, 

and thought 
He scarce would prosper. ' Teil us,' 

Florian ask'd, 
' How grew this feud betwixt the right 

and left.' 
' O long ago,' she said, ' betwixt these 

two 
Division smoulders hidden ; 'tis my 

mother, 
Too jealous, often fretful as the wind 
Pent in acrevice: much I bear with her: 
I never knew my father, but she says 
(God help her) she was wedded to a 

fool ; 
And still she raiTd against the state 

of things. 
She had the care of Lady Ida's youth. 
And from the Queen's decease she 

brought her up. 
But when your sister came she won 

the heart 
(Df Ida : they were still together, grew 
(For so they said themselves) inoscu- 



One mind in all things : yet my mother 
Affirms your Psyche thieved her theo- 
And angled with them for her pupil's 

She calls her plagiarist : I know not 

what : 
But I must go : I dare not tarry,' and 

light, 
As flies the shadow of a bird, she fled. 

Then murmur'd Florian gazing after 



'An 


open-hearted maiden, true and 




pure. 


It 1 


could love, why this were she : 




how pretty 


Her 


blushing was, and how she 




blush'd again. 


As 


f to close with Cyril's random 




wish : 





cSS ; A Medley. 



Not like youv Princess cranim"d with 

erring pride, 
Nor like poor Psyche whom she drags 



• The era 
thee 



I said, ' may chatter of 



The dove may murmur of the dove, 
but I 

An eagle clang an eagle to the sphere. 

My princess, O my princess ! true she 
errs, 

But in her own grand way : being her- 
self 

Three times more noble than three 
score of men, 

She sees herself in every woman else. 

And so she wears her error like a 

To blind the truth and me : for her, 
and her, 

Hebes are they to hand ambrosia, mix 

The nectar ; but — ah she — whene'er 
she moves 

The Samian Here rises and she 
speaks 

A Memnon smitten with the morning 
Sun." 
So saying from the court we paced, 
and gain'd 

The terrace ranged along the North- 
ern front. 

And leaning there on those balusters, 
high 

Above the empurpled champaign, 
drank the gale 

That blown about the foliage under- 
neath. 

And sated with the innumerable rose, 

Beat balmupon your eyelids. Hither 
came 

Cyril, and yawning ' O hard task,' he 
cried ; 

' No fighthig shadows here ! I forced 

Thro' solid opposition crabb'd and 

gnarl'd. 
Better to clear prime forests, heave 

and thump 
A league of street in summer solstice 



at this reverend gentle- 





As man's could be ; yet maiden-meek 

I pray'd 
Concealment : she demanded who we 



I fabled nothing 



And why w 

fair. 

But, your example pilot, told her all. 
Up went the hush'd amaze of hand 

and eye. 
But when I dwelt upon your old 

affiance. 
She answer'd sharply that I talk'd 

astray. 
I urged the fierce inscription on the 

gate, 
And our three lives. True — we had 

limed ourselves 
With open eyes, and we must take 

the chance. 
But such extremes, I told her, well 

might harm 
The woman's cause. " Not more 

than now," she said, 
" So puddled as it is with favoritism." 
I tried the mother's heart. Shame 

might befall 
Melissa, knowing, saying not she 

knew : 
Her answer was " Leave me to deal 

with that." 
I spoke of war to come and many 

deaths. 
And she replied, her duty was to 

speak, 
And dutv dutv, clear of consequences. 
I grew discouraged, Sir ; but since I 



I recommenced ; " decide not ere you 

pause. 
I find you here but in the second place. 
Some say the third — the authentic 

foundress you. 





The Princess; A Metiley. 



seat you highest, 
help my prince 



ul bride, and here I promise 



Some jjalace in our land, where you 
shall reign 

The head and heart of all our fair she- 
world, 

And your urcat name flow on with 
hroailening lime 

For ever." Well, she balanced this a 



Meantime be ninte : thus much, nor 
more I gain'd.' 

He ceasing, came a message from 

the Head. 
' That afternoon the Princess rode to 

take 
The dip of certain strata to the North. 
Would we go with her? we should 

find the land 
Worth seeing; and the river made a 

fall 
Out yonder : ' then she pointed on to 



A double hill ran 
Beyond the thick- 



his furrowy forks 
I'ed platans of the 



Agreed to, this, the day fled on thro' 

all 
Its range of duties to the appointed 

hour. 
Then summon'd to the porch we went. 

She stood 
Among her maidens, higher by the 

head. 
Her back against a pillar, her foot on 

one 
Of those tame leopards. Kittenlike 

he roll'd 
And ]iaw'd about her sandal. I drew 

gazed. On a sudden my strange 

Upon me, the weird vision of our 

house : 
The Princess Ida seem'd a hollow 





Her gay-furr'd cats a painted fanta 
Her college and her maidens, em 

inasks. 
And I mvself the shadow of a dream. 
For all things were and were not. Yet 

I felt 
My heart beat thick with passion and 

with awe; 
Then from my breast the involuntary 

sigh 
Brake, as she smote me with the light 

of eyes 
That lent my knee desire to kneel, and 

shook 
My pulses, till to horse we got, and so 
Went forth in long retinue following 

up 
The river as it narrow'd to the hills. 



I rode beside her and to me she 

said : 
' O friend, we trust that you esteem'd 

us not 
Too harsh to your companion yester- 

morn ; 
Unwillingly we spake ' 'No — not to 

her,' 
I ansvver'd, ' but to one of whom we 

Your Highness might have seem'd 
the thing you say.' 

'Again ?' she cried, ' are you ambassa- 
dresses 

From him to me i" we give you, being 
strange, 

A license : speak, and let the topic die.' 



I s 


tammer'd that 


I knew hin 


, 


onld 




have wish'd 








'Ou 


king expects 


—was there 


no 


pre- 


There is no true 


r-hearted— 


ah, 


you 




seem 








All 


le prefigured, 


and he c. 


uld 


not 


The 


bird of passa 


ge flying so 


uth 


but 



long'd 
To follow: surely, if your Highness 

keep 
Your purport, you will shock him ev'n 

to death. 
Or baser courses, children of despair.' 





The -rrhicess : A Metilcy. 



read — no books ? 
Quoit, tennis, ball — no games? nor 

deals in tliat 
Which men delight in, martial exercise? 
To nurse a blind ideal like a girl, 
JMethinks he seems no better than a 

As girls were once, as we ourself have 

been : 
We had our dreams ; perhaps he mixt 

with them : 
We touch on our dead self, nor shun 



-doi 



Beii 



meaning here. 
To lift the woman's fall'n divinity 
Upon an even pedestal with man.' 

She paused, and added with a 

haughtier smile 
'And as to precontracts, we move, 

my friend. 
At no man's beck, but know ourself 

and thee, 

Vashti, noble Vashti! Summon'd out 
She kept her state, and left the 

drunken king 
To brawl at Shushan underneath the 
the palms.' 

' Alas vour Highness breaths full 
East,' I said, 
' On that which leans to you. I know 
the I'rince, 

1 prize his truth : and then how vast a 

work 
To assail this gray preeminence of 

You grant me license ; might I use it ? 

Ere half be done perchance your life 
leiress of 
and thus 



Then comes the feebh 
plan, 
and ruins ; 



And tak( 

your pains 

May only make that footjjrint upon 
sand 

Which old-recurring waves of prej- 
udice 

Resmooth to nothing : might I dread 
that you, 





With only Fame for spouse and 
For issue, yet may live in vain, 



Meanwiiile, what every woman counts 
her due, 

Love, children, happiness ? ' 

And she e.xclaim'd, 

' Peace, you young savage of the 
Northern wikl I 

What ! tho' your Prince's love were 
like a God's, 

Have we not made ourself the sacri- 
fice? 

You are bold indeed : we are not talk'd 
to thus : 

Yet will we say for children, would 
thev erew 

Like field-flowevs everywhere I we like 



But childr. 

girl, 

Howe'er y 



from our 
Kill us with pit 



die; and let me tell you, 

babble, great deeds can- 

le sun and moon renew 

ight 

ssing those that look on 

at men mav pluck them 
lur hearts, 

break us with our- 

here is notlnnc; upon 



O— child: 

earth 
More miserable than she tl 
And sees him err: nor wo 

for fame ; 
Tho' she perhaps migh 



the 



applause of Gr 
Who learns the one Pou STO whence 

afterhands 
May move the world, tho' she herself 

effect 
But little ; wherefore up and act, nor 

shrink 
For fear our solid aim be dissipated 
Bv frail successors. Would, indeed, 

we had been. 
In lieu of many mortal flies, a race 
Of giants living, each, a thousand 

years. 
That we might se 

and watch 



our own work 





The Princess; A Medle\. 



The sandy footprint harden into stone.' 

r'd nothing, doubtful in my- 
self 

If that strange Poet-princess with her 
grand 

Imaginations might at all be won. 

And she broke out interpreting my 
thoughts : 



We 



doubt 
; used i. 



i-e seem a kind of 

) you ; 

that ; for women, up 

vorse than South-sea- 

, fail so far 



Cramp'd under 

isle taboo. 
Dwarfs of the gyuaecei 
In high desire, they know not, cannot 

guess 
How much their welfare is a passion 

to us. 
If we could give them surer, quicker 

proof — 
Oh if our end were less achievable 
By slow approaches, than by single 

Of immolation, any phase of death, 
We were as prompt to spring against 

the pikes. 
Or down the fiery gulf as talk of it, 
To compass our dear sisters' liberties.' 

She bow'd as if to veil a noble tear; 
And up we came to where the river 

sloped 
To plunge in cataract, shattering on 

black blocks 
A breadth of thunder. O'er it shook 

the woods, 
And danced the color, and, below, 

stuck out 
The bones of some vast bulk that 

lived and roar'd 
Before man was. She gazed awhile 

and said, 
' As these rude bones to us, are we to 

her 
That will be.' ' Dare we dream of 

that,' I ask'd, 

the workman 




' Which wrought us, ; 

and his work. 
That practice better 

cried, 'you lov 



He 



she 




The metaphysics ! read and earn our 

prize, 
A golden brooch : beneath an emerald 

plane 

Sits Diotima, teaching him that died 
Of hemlock ; our device ; wrought to 

the life ; 
She rapt upon her subject, he on her : 
For there are schools for all.' 'And 

yet ' I said 
' Methinks I have not found among 

them all 
One anatomic' ' Nav. we thought of 

that,' 
She answer'd, 'but it pleased us not : 

in truth 
We shudder but to dream our maids 

should ape 
Those monstrous males that carve the 

living hound. 
And cram him with the fragments of 

the grave. 
Or in the dark dissolving human 

heart. 
And holy secrets of this microcosm, 
Dabbling a shameless hand with 

shameful jest, 
Encarnalize their spirits: yet we know 
Knowledge is kiiowledge, and this 

matter hangs: 
Howbeit ourself, foreseeing casualty, 
Nor willing men should come among 

us, learnt. 
For many weary moons before we 

came. 
This craft of healing. W'ere you sick, 

ourself 
Would tend upon you. To your ques- 
tion now. 
Which touches on the workman and 

his work. 
Let there be light and there was 

light: 'tis so : 
For was, and is, and will be, are but 

And all creation is one act at once. 
The birth of light : but we that are not 



As parts, can see but pa 

now that, 
And live, perforce, from thought to 

thought, and make 
One act a phantom of succession : thus 





The Princess; A Mcdk\ 



Our weakness somehow shapes the 

shadow, Time ; 
But in the shadow will we work, and 

mould 
The woman to the fuller day.' 

She spake 
With kindled eyes : we rode a league 

beyond, 
And, o'er a bridge of pinewood cross- 



On 


flowery leve 
crag, • 


s underneath the 


I'ull 


ot all beauty, 
said 


' O how sweet ' I 


(For 


I was half-ob 


iviousofmymask) 


•To 


inger here w 
us.' ' Yea,' 


th one that loved 


The 


answer'd, ' or 
phies 


with fair philoso- 


•I'hat 


lift the fancv 
fields 


; for indeed these 


Are 


ovely, loveh 


er not the Elysian 



Where |iaced the Demigods of old, 
The soft white vapor streak the 
Built to the Sun : ' then, turning to her 

' Pitch uur pavilion here upon the 
sward ; 

Lay out the viands.' At the word, 
they raised 

A tent of satin, elaborately wrought 

With fair Corinna's triumph ; here she 
stood, 

Kngirt with many a florid maiden- 
cheek, 

The woman-conqueror; 
quer'd there 

The bearded Meter of 
hvnins. 

And all the mci 



woman-con- 
en thousand 



jurn'd 



Set forth to climb; then, climbing, 

Cvril kept 
With Psvche, with Melissa Florian, I 
With mine affianced. Manv a little 

hand 
Glanced like a touch of sunshine on 

the rocks. 
Many a light foot shone like a jewel 





In the dark crag : and then we t 

we wound 
About the cliffs, the copses, out and 

Hammering and clinking, chattering 

Of shale and hornblende, rag and trap 

and tuff. 
Amygdaloid and trachyte, till the 

Sun 
Grew broader toward his death and 

fell, and all 
The rosy heights came out above the 



The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story : 
The long light shakes across the lakes. 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
31ow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes fly- 
ing, 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dy- 
ing, dying. 

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear. 
And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 

O sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 
31ow, let us hear the purple glens reply- 



. echoes, dying, dying. 



Blow, bugle; answe 
dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky. 

They faint on hill or field or river: 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul. 
And grow for ever and for ever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes fly- 
ing, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, 

' There sinks the nebulous star we call 



If th: 



[ hvooihes 
Ida'; -Let 



: theirs be 



Down from the lean and 

precipices, 
By every coppice-feather'd cl 





The Princess; A Medley. 



::)ropt through the ambrosial gloom to 

where below 
No bigger than a glow-worm shone 



Lamp 1 



the 



nier. One 



Descending; once or twice she lent 

her hand, 
And blissful palpitations in the blood, 
Stirring a sudden transport rose and 



planted level feet, and 

ter'd in, 
d down 



But whei 

dipt 
Beneath the satin dome and 
There leaning deep in broid 

we sank 

Our elbows: on a tripod ill the mi 
A fragrant flame rose, and before 

glow'd 
Fruit, blossom, viand, amber wi 

and gold. 



Ther 
Of th( 



n she, ' Let som 
lightliermove 
linutes fledged ^ 
a maid, 
ise beside her, 
and sang. 



usic : ' and 
her harp. 



' Tears, idle tears, I know not what they 

Rise in the heart and gather to the eyes. 
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 
' Fresh as the first beam glittering on a 

That brings our friends up from the under- 
world. 

Sad as the last which reddens over one 

That sinks with all we love below the 
verge ; 

So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 



The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 

; slowly grows a glimmeri 





■ith some 



' Dear as remember'd kisses after death. 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy 

feign'd 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love. 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ; 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.' 



She ended with such passu 

the tear. 
She sang of, shook and fell, 

ing pearl 
Lost in her bosom : bu 

disdain 
Answer'd the Princess, ' If indeed 

there haunt 
About the moulder'd lodges of the 

Past 
So sweet a voice and vague, fatal to 

men, 
Well needs it we should cram our ears 

with wool 
And so pace by : but thine are fancies 

hatch'd' 
In silken-folded idleness; nor is it 
Wiser to weep a true occasion lost, 
But trim our sails, and let old bygones 

be. 
While down the streams that float us 

each and all 
To the issue, goes, like glittering bergs 

of ice. 
Throne after throne, and molten on 

the waste 
Becomes a cloud : for all things serve 

their time 
Toward that great year of equal 

mights and rights. 
Nor would I fight with iron laws, in 

the end 
Found golden : let the past be past; 

let be 
Their cancell'd Babels: tho' the 

rough kex break 
The starr'd mosaic, and the beard- 
blown goat 
Hang on the shaft, and the wild fig- 
tree split 
Their monstrous idols, care i 



hear 





The Fn 

ill the dibtance pealing 
uid Hope, a poising eagle, 
unrisen morrow : ' then to 



' Know yea no song of your own land,' 
she said, 

' Not such as moans about the retro- 
spect, 

Kut deals with the other distance and 
the hues 

Of promise ; not a death's-head at the 
wine.' 

Then I remember'd one myself had 

made, 
What time I watch'd the swallow 

winging south 
From mine own land, part made long 

since, and part 
Nowwhile I sang.and maidenlike asfar 
As 1 could ape their treble, did I sing. 




•0 Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying 
South, 
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, 
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. 


' O tell her. Swallow 
each. 
That bright and fierc 

And dark and true and 


thou that knowest 


• and fickle is the 
tender is the North. 


'O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, 
and light 
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill. 
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 


• O were I thou that 


she might take me 


.■\nd lay me on her bosom, and her heart 
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. 


'Why lingereth she 


to clothe her heart 




Swallow, that thy 



ceased, and all the 1 
at each, 
Like the fthacensian suii 



old 



Stared with great eyes, and laugh'd 

with alien lipsi 
And knew not what thev meant ; for 

still my voice 
Rang false : but smiling ' Not for 

thee,' she said, 
' O Bulbul, any rose of Gulistan 
Shall burst her veil :' marsh-divers, 

rather, maid. 
Shall croak thee sister, or the meadow- 
crake 
Grate her harsh kindred in the grass : 

and this 
A mere love-poem ! O for such, my 

friend, 
We hold them slight : they mind us 

of the time 
When we made bricks in Kgypt. 

That lute and flute fantastic tender- 



And dress the victim 
up. 

And paint the gates of Hell with 
Paradise, 

And play the slave to gain the tyr- 
anny. 

Poor soul ! I had a maid of honor 

She wept her true eyes blind for such 

a one, 
A rogue uf canzonets and serenades. 
I loved her. Peace be with her. She 

is dead. 
So they blaspheme the muse ! But 

great is song 
Used to great ends : ourself have 

often tried 
Valkvrian hymns, or into rhythm have 
' dash'd 



offering 














/ciTi 1 1-8 ? 1 i-crf 


1 




1 


T/ii: Princess 


; A Medley. 55 - 


The passion of the prophetess ; for 


Said Ida ; ' home ! to horse ! ' and 




- 


son" 


fled, as flies 


. 








Is duer °nito freedom, force and 


A troop of snowy doves athwart the 








tAfl growth 


dusk, <Aj 






Of spirit than to junketing and love. 


When some one batters at the dove- 






Love is it ? Would this same mock- 


cote-doors. 






love, and this 


Disorderlv the women. Alone I 






Mock-Hvmen were laid up like winter 


stood 






bats, 


With F-lorian, cursing Cyril, vext at 






Till all men grew to rate us at .uir 


heart. 






worti), 


In the pavilion : there like parting 






Not vassals to be beat, nor prettv 


hopes 






babes 


I heard them passing from me : hoof 






To be dandled, no, but living wills. 


by hoof, 






and sphered 


And every hoof a knell to mv desires, 






Whole in ourselves and owed to none. 


Clang'd on the bridge; and then 






Enough ! 


another shriek. 






But now to leaven play with profit, 


' The Head, the Head, the Princess, 






VOU, 


the Head!' 






Know you no song, the true growth of 


For blind with rage she miss'd the 






your soil, 


plank, and roll'd 






That gives the manners of vour coun- 


In the river. Out I sprang from 






try-women ? ' 


glow to gloom : 
There whirl'd her white robe like a 






She spoke and turn'd her sumptu- 


blossom'd branch 






ous head with eyes 


Rapt to the horrible fall : a glance I 






Of shining expectation fixt on mine. 
Then while I dragg'd mv brains for 


gave. 






No more ; but woman vested as I was 






such a song. 


Plunged ; and the flood drew ; yet I 






Cyril, with whom the bell-mouth'd 


caught her ; then 






glass had wrought. 


Oaring one arm and bearing in mv 






Or master'd by the sense of sport. 


left 






began 


The weight of all the hopes of half 






To troll a careless, careless tavern- 


the world, 






catch 


Strove to buffet to land in vain. A 






Of Moll and Meg. and strange experi- 


tree 






ences 


Was half-disrooted from his place and 






Unmeet for ladies. Florian nodded 


stoop'd 






at him. 


To drench his dark locks in the gur- 






I frowninu; Psvche flush'd and 


gling wave 






wann'd and shook ; 


Mid-channel. Right on this we drove 






The lilvlike Melissa droop'd her 


and caught. 






brows ; 


And grasping down the boughs I 






■ Forbear,' the Princess cried ; ' For- 


gain'd the shore. 






bear, Sir ' I ; 








And heated thro' and thro' with 


There stood her maidens glimmer- 






wrath and love. 


inglv group'd 






M* I smote him on the breast ; he started 


In the hollow bank. One reaching '^ 








up ; 


forward drew 










There rose a shriek as of a city 


My burthen from mine arms; thev 










sack'd ; 


cried 'she lives:' 










Melissa clamor'd 'Flee the death;' 


They bore her back into the tent : but 








1 


• To horse ' 


_ . v 


n 




Ij4 I I I \ \ \i^ 












Nor found my frie 

alone on foot 
(P'or since her horse was lost I left her 

mine) 
Across the woods, and less from 

Indian craft 
Than beelike instinct hiveward, found 

at length 
The garden portals. Two great 

statues, Art 
And Science, Caryatids, lifted up 
A weight of emblem, and betwixt were 



valv 



which the hunter 
, manlike, but his 



Of open-W( 
rued 

His rash i 
brows 

Had sprouted, and the branches there- 
upon 

Spread out at top, and grimly spiked 
the gates. 

A little space was left between the 
horns, 
Thro' which I clamber'd o'er at top 

Dropt on the sward, and up the linden 

walks. 
And, tost on thoughts that changed 

from hue to hue, 
Now poring on the glowworm, now 

the star, 
I paced the terrace, till the Bear had 



Thro* a great : 



slow i 



Of Ha 


htest ech 


1, then 


a loftier 


for 


11 


Than 


female, 


mov 


ing thr 




the 




uncertaii 








Distu 


b'd me with the doubt 


if this 




were she 










lint it 


was Flor 


an. ' 


Hist O Hist 


•he 




said. 










•The% 


seek us 


out so late is 


on 


of 




rules. 










Moreover ' sei 


e the 


strangers 


•is 


the 


Ilowc.une vou 


here .> 


' I told h 


m : 


'I' 




said he. 













Last of the train, a moral lep 

To whom none spake, half- 
heart, return'd. 
ng all confused anions 
hooded brows I crepl into the 
hall. 

And, couch-d behind a Judith, under- 
neath 

The head of Holofernes peep'd and 
saw. 

Girl after girl was call'd to trial: each 

Disclaim'd all knowledge of us : last 
of all, 

Melissa : trust me. Sir, I pitied her. 

She, question'd if she knew us men, at 
first 

Was silent ; closer prest, denied it not : 

And then, demanded if her mother 
knew. 

Or Psyche, she affirm'd not, or denied : 

From whence the Royal mind, familiar 
with her, 

Easily gather'd either guilt. She sent 

For Psyche, but she was not there ; 
she call'd 

For Psyche's child to cast it from the 
doors ; 

She sent for Blanche to accuse her 
face to face ; 

And I slipt out; but whither will you 

And where are Psyche, Cvril ? boih 

are fled ; ' 
What, if together? that were not so 

well. 
Would rather we had never come ! I 

dread 
His wildness, and the chances of the 

dark.' 

'And yet,' I said, 'you wrong him 

more than I 
That struck him : this is proper to the 

clown, 
Tho' smock'd, or furr'd and purpled, 

still the clown. 
To harm the thing that trusts him, 

and to shame 
That which he says he loves: for 

Cvril, howe'e'r 
He deal in frolic, as to-night — the song 
Might have been worse and sinn'd in 

grosser lips 





J-he Friitccss; A Medley. 



i it is, I hold 
slics on the surface are not he. 
, solid base o£ temperament: 
But as the waterlily starts and slides 
Upon the level in little putfs of wind, 
Tho' anchor'd to the l:)uttom, such is 
he.' 

Scarce had I ceased when from a 

tamarisk near 
Two Proctors leapt upon us, crying, 

•Names:' 
He, standing still, was clutched ; but 

I began 
To thrid the musky-circled mazes, 

wind 
And double in and out the boles, and 

race 
By all the fountains : tleet I was of 

foot : 
Before me shower'd the rose in 

flakes ; behind 
I heard the puff'd pursuer; at mine 

Bubbled the nightingale and heeded 

not. 
And secret laughter tickled all my 

soul. 
At last 1 hook'd my ankle in a vine, 
That claspt the feet of a Mnemosyne, 
And falling on my face was caught 



,din 



They hale 
she sat 
High in the hall : above h 



the Princess wher( 

oop't 



And made the single jewel on her 

Burn like the mvstic fire on a mast- 
head. 
Prophet of storm : a handmaid on each 

side 
Bow'd toward her, combing out her 

long black hair 
Damp from the river ; and close 

behind her stood 
Eight daughters of the plough. 

stronger than men. 
Huge women blowzed with health, 

and wind, and rain. 
And labor. Each was like a Druid 

rock ; 





like a spire of land that stands 
apart 

nd wail'd about 



An adv 



e came, the 
the throne : 



andtherebe- 



bide 



Half-naked as if caught at once from 

bed 
And tumbled on the purple footcloth, 

lay 
The lily-shining child ; and on the 

left, 
Bow'd on her palms and folded up 

from wrong. 
Her round white shoulder shaken with 

her sobs, 
Melissa knelt ; but Lady Blanche 

Stood up and spake, an affluent orator. 

' It was not thus, O Princess, in old 

days : 
Vou prized my counsel, lived upon 

my lips: 
I led yon then to all the Castalies ; 
1 fed you with the rhilk of every Muse ; 
I loved you like this kneeler, and you 

Your second mother : those were 
gracious times. 

Dur new friend : 
change — 
rieved — to slacken i 



Then 





The Princess; A Medley. 



k-e ; and thus : 



When time should s( 

nuble scheme 
Grew up from seed we two long since 

had sown ; 
In us true growth, in her a Jonah's 

gourd. 
Up in one night and due to sudden sun: 
We took this palace ; but even from 

the first 
Vou stood in vour own light and 

darken'd mine. 
What student came but that you 

planed her path 
To Lady Psyche, younger, not so wise, 
A foreigner, and 1 your countrywoman, 
I your old friend and tried, she new 

in all ? 
But still her lists were swelTd and 

mine were lean ; 
Yet I bore up in hope she would be 

known: 
Then came these wolves : they knew 

her : tliey endured. 
Long-closeted with her the yestermorn. 
To tell her what they were, and she to 

hear : 
And me none told : not less to an 

eye like mine 
A lidless watcher of the public weal. 
Last night, their mask was patent, and 

my foot 
Was to you : but I thought again : I 

fear'd 
To meet a cold " We thank you, we 

shall hear of it 
From Lady Psyche : " you had gone 

to her, 
She told, perforce ; 

grace, 
No doubt, for slight delay, remain'd 

among us 
In our young nursery still unknown. 

the stem 
Less grain than touchwood, while my 

honest heat 
Were all miscounted as malignant 



val out of place and 
required she should be 
i' oath was ta'en for 



iiinmg easy 





I broke the letter 

I spoke not then 

them well. 
Saw that they kept apart, 

done ; 
And vet thi> dav (tho' vou should hate 

• me for it) 
I came to tell you ; found that vou 

had gone, 
Ridd'n to the hills, she likewise : now, 

I thought. 
That surely she will speak; if not. 



Did she ? These monsters blazon'd 

what they were. 
According to the coarseness of their 



For thus 
And fu 



[ hear ; and known at last (mv 
rk) 
of cowardice and guilty 



And I remain on whom to wrea 

rage, 
I, that have lent mv life to bu 



I that ha 
And tale 



■asted here health, 
— vou know it — I • 



Dismiss me, and I prophesy your plan, 
Divorced from mv experience, will be 

chaff 
For every gust of chance, and men will 

We did not know the real light, but 

chased 
The wisp that flickers where no foot 

can tread.' 

She ceased : the Princess answer'd 

coldly, ' Good : 
Your oath is broken : we dismi.ss you : 

go- 
For this lost lamb (she pointed to the 

child) 
Our mind is changed: we tal 

ourself.' 

Thereat the Ladv stretch'd a 





The Princess ; A Medley. 



I biiilt the 



' To hatch the cuckoo. Rise ! ' and 

stoop'd to updrag 
Melissa : she, half on her mother 

propt, 
Half-drooping from her, tiirn'd her 

face, and cast 
A liquid look on Ida, full of prayer, 
Which melted P'lorian's fancy as she 

hung. 
A Niobean daughter, one arm out. 
Appealing to the bolts of Heaven ; 

We gazed upon her came a little stir 
About the doors, and on a sudden 

rush'd 
Among us, out of breath, as one pur- 



Fe 
1 in h 



-post in flying raiment. 



:r eyes, and chalk'd her 
and wing'd 

Her transit to the throne, whereby 
she fell 

Delivering seal'd dispatches which 
the Head 

Took half-amazed, and in her lion's 
mood 

Tore open, silent we with blind sur- 
mise 

Regarding, while she read, till over 
brow 

And cheek and bosom brake the wrath- 
ful bloom 

A s of some fire against a stormy cloud. 

When the wild peasant rights himself, 
the rick 

Flames, and his anger reddens in the 
heavens ; 

For anger most it seem'd, while now 

Beaten with some great passion at her 

heart. 
Palpitated, her hand shook, and we 

heard 
In the dead hush the papers that she 

held 
Rustle : at once the lost lamb at her 

feet 
.^ent out a bitter bleating for its dam ; 





The plaintive cry jarr'd on her ire ; she 

crush'd 
The scrolls together, made a sudden 

As if to speak, but, utterance failing 

She whirl'vi them on to me, as who 

should say 
' Read,' and I read— two letters — one 

her sire's. 

' Fair daughter, when we sent the 

Prince your way 
We knew not your ungracious laws, 

which learnt, 
We, conscious of what temper you are 

built. 
Came all in haste to hinder wrong, 

but fell 
Into his father's hands, who has this 

night, 
You lying close upon his territory, 
Slipt round and in the dark invested 

you. 
And here he keeps me hostage for his 



The second ■ 
thus : 



' father's running 
touch not a hair 



' You have our son ; 

of his head : 
Render him up unscathed : give him 

your hand : 
Cleave to your contract : tho' indeed 

we hear 
You hold the woman is the better 

A rampant heresy, such as if it spread 

Would make all 'women kick against 
their Lords 

Thro' all the world, and which might 
well deserve 

That we this night should pluck your 
palace down ; 

And we will do it, unless you send us 
back 

Our son, on the instant, whole.' 

.So far I read ; 

And then stood up and spoke impetu- 
ously. 

' O not to pry and peer on y 





But led by golden wishes, and a hope 
The child of ret^al compact, did 

break 
Your precinct; not a scorner of your sex 
But venerator, zealous it should be 
All that it might be: hear me, for I 

bear, 
Tho' man, yet human, whatsoe'er your 

wrongs. 
From the flaxen curl to the gray lock 

a life 
Less mine than yours : my nurse 

would tell me of you ; 
I babbled for you, as babies for the 

Vague brightness ; when a boy, you 

stoop'd to me 
From all high places, lived in all fair 

lights, 
Came in long breezes rapt from 

inmost south 
And blown to inmost north ; at eve 

and dawn 
With Ida, Ida, Ida, rang the woods ; 
The leader wildswan in among the 

Would clang it, and lapt in wreaths of 

glowworm light 
The mellow breaker murmur'd Ida. 

Now, 
Because I would have reach'd you, 

had you been 
Sphered up with Cassiopeia, or the 

enthroned 
Persephone in Hades, now at length, 
Those winters of abeyance all worn 

A man I came to see you : but, indeed, 
Not in this frequence can I lend full 

tongue, 
O noble Ida, to those thoughts that 



On 



11, their centre : let 
this, 
rhat many a famous man 



And landskip, have '. 




le say but 
d woman, 
heard of, after 



The dwarfs of presage : tho' when 

known, there grew 
Another kind of beauty in detail 
Made them worth knowing; but in 

vou I found 



nvolved and daz- 
that after-beauty 
to act, from hour 
Slav me 



My boyish d: 

zled dov 
And master'd, 

makes 
Such head froi 

to hour. 
Within me, that except yoi 

here. 

According to your bitter statute-book, 
I cannot cease to follow you, as they 

say 
The seal does music ; who desire you 

more 
Than growing boys their manhood ; 

dying lips. 
With many thousand matters left to 

do. 
The breath of life; O more than poor 

men wealth. 
Than sick men health — yours, yours, 

not mine — but half 
Without you ; with you, whole ; and 

of those halves 
You worthiest ; and howe'er you 

block and bar 
Your heart with system out from 

mine, I hold 
That it becomes no man to nurse 

despair, 
But in the teeth of clench'd antago- 

To follow up the worthiest till he die : 
Y'et that I came not all unauthorized 
Behold your father's letter.' 

On one knee 
Kneeling, I gave it, which she caught, 

And dash'd 
Unopen'd at her feet : a tide of fierce 
Invective seem'd to wait behind her 

lips. 
As waits a river level with the dam 
Ready to burst and flood the world 

with foam : 
And so she would have spoken, but 

there rose 
A hubbub in the court of half the 



aids 



from the ill 



Gather'd togethe 

Long lanes of splendor slanted o'er a 





The Princess; A Medley. 



And rainbow robes, and gems and 

gemlike eyes, 
And gold and golden heads; they to 

and fro 
Fluctuated, as flowers in storm, some 

red, some pale. 
All open-mouth'd, all gazing to the 

light. 
Some crying there was an army in the 

land, 
And some that men \ 



thei 



And some they cared not ; till a 

clamor grew 
As of a new-world Babel, woman-built. 
And worse-confounded : high above 

them stood 
The placid marble Muses, looking 

peace. 

Not peace she look'd, the Head : but 

rising up 
Robed in the long night of her deep 

hair, so 
To the open window moved, remaining 

there 
Fixt like a beacon-tower above the 

waves 
Of tempest, when the crimson-rolling 

Glares ruin, and the wild birds on the 

light 
Dash themselves dead. She stretch'd 

her arms and call'd 
Across the tumult and the tumult fell. 

' What fear ye, brawlers .' am not I 

your Head .' 
On me, me, me, the storm first breaks : 

/dare 
All these male thunderbolts : what is 

Peace ! there are those to avenge us 

and they come : 
If not, — myself were like enough, O 

girls, 
To unfurl the maiden banner of our 

rights. 
And clad in iron burst the ranks of 





Six thousand years of fear have made 
you that 

From which I would redeem you : but 
for those 

That stir this hubbub — you and you 
— I know 

Your faces there in the crowd — to-mor- 
row morn 

We hold a great convention : then 
shall they 

That love their voices more than duty. 

With whom they deal, dismissed in 
shame to live 

No wiser than their mothers, house- 
hold stuff. 

Live chattels, mincers of each other's 
fame. 

Full of weak poison, turnspits for the 



mg- 



The drunkard's football, 

stocks of Time, 
Whose brains are in their hands and 

in their heels. 
But fit to flaunt, to dress, to dance, to 

thrum. 
To tramp, to scream, to burnish, and 

to scour. 
For ever slaves at home and fools 

abroad.' 

She ending, waved her hands : there- 
at the crowd 

Muttering, dissolved: then with a 
smile, that look'd 

A stroke of cruel sunshine on the cliff, 

When all the glens are drown'd in 
azure gloom 

Of thunder-shower, she floated to us 
and said : 

' You have done well and like a 

gentleman. 
And like a prince : you have our 

thanks for all : 
And you look well too in your woman's 

dress : 
Well have you done and like a gentle- 



You saved our 1 
bitter thank 

Better have died ; 
in the flood- 





The Princess; A Medlev. 



1 men had said— but now— What 

hinders me 
ake sucli bloody vengeance on yon 
both ? 
Vet since our father — Wasps in our 

good hive, 
You would-be quenchers of the light 






be, 
ms, grpssei 

1 I had h 



tha 



You that have dared to break our 

bound, and guU'd 
Our servants, wrong'd and lied and 

thwarted us — 
/wed with thee! /bound by precon- 
tract 
Your bride, your bondslave ! not tho' 

all the gold 
That veins the world were pack'd to 

make your crown, 
And every spoken tongue should lord 

you. Sir, 
Your falsehood and yourself are hate- 
ful to us : 
I trample on your offers and on you : 
Begone : we Will not look upon you 

more. 
Here, push them out at gates.' 

In wrath she spake. 
Then those eight mighty daughters of 

the plough 
Bent their broad faces toward us and 

address'd 
Their motion : twice I sought to plead 

my cause. 
But on my shoulder hung their heavy 

hands. 
The weight of destiny: so from her face 
They pu'shed us, down the steps, and 

thro' the court. 
And with grim laughter thrust us out 

at gates. 



We cross'd the street 
petty mound 
Beyond it, whence we s 
and heard 




d gain'd a 

the lights 

murmuring. While I 
X came 
the weird seizure and the 



I see 


ii'd to 


love 


among a 


world 


of 




ghosts 












•I'he 


Princes 




rd, 


her M 


onstr 


lUS 


The 


est and 
side, 




est 


working 


side 


by 


The 


cataract 


and 


the 


tumult 


and 


he 




kings 
Were shadows ; and the long fantastic 

night 
With all its doings had and had not 

been. 
And all things were and were not. 

This went by 
As strangely as it came, and on my 

spirits 
Settled a gentle cloud of melancholy ; 
Not long; I shook it off; for spite of 

doubts 
And sudden ghostly shadowings I was 

To whom the touch of all mischance 
but came 

As night to him that sitting on a hill 

Sees the midsummer, midnight, Nor- 
way sun 

Set into sunrise ; then we moved 
away. 



Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums. 

That beat to battle where he stands ; 
Thy face across his fancy comes. 

And gives the battle to his hands : 
A moment, while the trumpets blow. 

He sees his brood about thy knee ; 
The next, like fire he meets the foe. 

And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 

So Lilia sang : we thought her half- 

possess'd. 
She struck such warbling fury thro' 

the words ; 
And, after, feigning pique at what she 

cali'd 

false 



illery, or grotesque 

ublime — 

lie that wishes at a dance to 



The 1 

Like 

change 
The music — clapt her hands and cried 

for war. 
Or some grand fight to kill and make 

an end : 
And he that ne.xt inherited the tale 





The Princess; A Medley. 



Half turning to the broken statue, 

' Sir Ral|)h has got your colors : if I 

prove 
Your knight, and fight your battle, 

what for nie ? ' 
It chanced, her empty glove upon the 

tomb 
Lay by her like a model of her hand. 
She took it and she flung it. ' Fight,' 

she said, 
' And make us all we would be, great 

and good.' 
lie knightlike in his cap instead of 

casque, 
A cap of Tyrol borrow'd from the 

hall, 
Arranged the favor, and assumed the 

Prince. 



Now, scarce three paces measured 

from the mound. 
We stumbled on a stationary voice. 
And ' Stand, who goes .' ' ' Two from 

the palace ' I. 
' The second two : they wait,' he said, 

' pass on ; 
His Highness wakes :' and one, that 

clash'd in arms, 
By glimmering lanes and walls of can- 
vas led 
Threading the soldier-city, till we 

heard 
The drowsy folds of our great ensign 

shake 
From blazon'd lions o'er the imperial 



Whi: 



.pers 



Entering, the sudden light 
Dazed me half-blind : I stood and 

seem'd to hear. 
As in a poplar grove when a light 

wind wakes 
A lisping of the innumerous leaf and 

dies, 
Each hissing in his neighbor's ear; 

ter, out of which there 
hr.ike 
all si.les, clamoring etiquette to 




Unmeasured mirth ; while now the 

two old kings 
Began to wag their baldness up and 

down. 
The fresh young captains flash'd their 

glilt'tring teeth, 
The huge bush-bearded Barons heaved 




. blev 



And 



ith 



ughter 



Dll'd the 



gilded Squ 

At length my Sire, his rough cheek 

wet with tears. 
Panted from weary sides ' King, you 

are free I 
We did but keep you surety for our 

If this be he, — or a draggled mawkin, 

thou, 
That tends her bristled grunters in the 

sludge : ' 
For I was drench'd with ooze and 

torn with briers. 
More crumpled than a poppy from the 

sheath. 
And all one rag, disprinced from head 

to heel. 
Then some one sent beneath his 

vaulted palm 
A whisper'd jesi to some one near 

him, ' Look, 
He has been among his shadows.' 

' Satan take 
The old women and their shadows^ 

(thus the King 
Roar'd) make yourself a man to fight 

Go : Cyril told us all' 

As boys that slink 

From ferule and the trespass-chiding 
eye. 

Away we stole, and transient in a trice 

From what was left of faded woman- 
slough 

To sheathing splendors and the golden 
scale 

Of harness, issued in the sun, that 

Leapt from the dewy shoulders of the 

Earth, 
And hit the Northern hills. Here 

A little s'hy at first, but by and by 





The Princess; A Medley. 



with mutual pardon ask'd 

and given 
For strolie and song, resolder'd peace, 

whereon 
Follovv'd his tale. Amazed he fled 

away 
Thro' the dark land, and later in the 

night 
Had come on Pysche weeping : ' then 

we fell 



youi 



father's hand, and there she 



But will not speak, nor stir.' 

He show'd a tent 
A stone-shot off : we enter'd in, and 

there 
Among piled arms and rough accou- 
trements. 
Pitiful sight, wrapp'd in a soldier's 

cloak. 
Like some sweet sculpture draped 

from head to foot, 
And push'd by rude hands from its 

pedestal. 
All her fair length upon the ground 

she lay : 
And at her head a follower of the 

camp, 
A charr'd and wrinkled piece of 

womanhood. 
Sat watching like a watcher by the 

dead. 

. Then Florian knelt, and 'Come ' he 

whisper'd to her, 
' Lift up your head, sweet sister : lie 

hot thus. 
What have you done but right.' you 

could not slay 
Me, nor your prince : look up : be 

comforted : 
Sweet is it to have done the thing one 

ought, 
When fall'n in darker ways.' And 

likewise I : 
' Be comforted : have I not lost her 

vhose least act abides the name- 
less charm 
That none has else for me?' She 

heard, she moved, 
She moan'd, a folded voice; and up 





And raised the cloak from brows as 

pale and smooth 
As those that mourn half-shrouded 

over death 
In deathless marble. ' Her,' she said, 

' my friend — 
Parted from her — betray'd her cause 

and mine — 
Where shall I breathe ? why kept ye 

not your faith .' 
O base and bad ! what comfort ? none 

for me ! ' 
To whom remorseful Cyril, ' Yet I 

pray 
Take comfort: live, dear lady, for 

your child ! ' 
At which she lifted up her voice and 

cried. 
' Ah me, my babe, my blossom, ah, 

my child, 
My one sweet child, whom I shall see 

no more ! 
For now will cruel Ida keep her back ; 
And either she will die for want of 

care, 
Or sicken with ill-usage, when they say 
The child is hers— for every little fault. 
The child is hers; and they will beat 

my girl 
Remembering her mother : O my 

flower ! 
Or they will take her, they will make 

her hard. 
And she will pass me by in after-life 
With some cold reverence worse than 

■were she dead. 
Ill mother that I was to leave her 

there, 
To lag behind, scared by the cry they 

made. 
The horror of the shame among them 

all: 
But I will go and sit beside the doors, 
And make a wild petition night and 

day. 
Until they hate to hear me like a wind 
Wailing forever, till they open to me. 
And lav my little blossom at my feet. 
My babe, mv sweet Aglaia, ray 

child :' 
And I will take her up and go 

way. 
And satisfy my soul with kissing he 




The Princess; A Medley. 



All ! what might that man not deserve 

of me 
Who gave me back my child ? ' 'Be 

t : ' but 

She veil'd her brows, and prone she 

Like tender things that being caught 

feign death, 
Spolce not, nor stirr'd. 

Bythis a murmur ran 
Thro' all the camp and inward raced 

the scouts 
With rumor of Prince Arac hard at 

hand. 
We left her by the woman, and without 
Found the gray kings at parle : and 

' Look you ' cried 
My father ' that our compact be ful- 

fiU'd : 
You have spoilt this child ; she laughs 

at you and man : 
She wrongs herself, her sex, and me, 

But red-faced war has rods of steel and 

fire; 
She yields, or war.' 

Then Gama turn'd to me : 
' We fear, indeed, you spent a stormy 

time 
With our strange girl : and yet they 

say that still 
You love her. Give us, then, your 

mind at large : 
How say you, war or not } ' 

' Not war, if possible, 
O king,' I said, ' lest from the abuse of 

war. 
The desecrated shrine, the trampled 

year. 
The smouldering homestead, and the 

household flower 
Torn from the lintel — all the common 



A smoke 



go up 



vhich 



monster : 

lightens scorn 
At him that mars her plan, but then 

would hate 
(And every voice she talk'd with ratify 




oom to 
m- she 



And every faceshe look'd on justi 
The general foe. More soluble is this 

By gentleness than %var. I want her 




What 



nigher 



altho 



Your cities into shards with catapults. 
She would not love ; — or brought her 

chain'd, a slave, 
The lifting of whose eyelash is my 

lord. 
Not ever would she love : but brood- 



The book of scorn, till all my flitting 

chance 
Were caught within the record of her 

wrongs. 
And crush'd to death : and rather, Sire, 

than this 
I would the old God of war himself 

were dead. 
Forgotten, rusting on his iron hills, 
Rotting on some wild shore with ribs 

of wreck, 
Or like an old-world mammoth bulk'd 

in ice. 
Not to be molten out.' 

And roughly spake 
My father, ' Tut, vou know them not, 

the girls. 
Boy, when I hear you prate I almost 

think 
That idiot legend credible. Look you. 

Sir ! 
Man is the hunter ; woman is his 

game : 
The sleek and shining creatures of the 

chase, 
We hunt them for the beauty of their 



Theyl 



for it. 



nd we ride them 
ng with them I 



Wheedling and si( 

Out ! for shame ! 
Boy, there's no rose that's half so dear 

to them 
As he that does the thing they dare 

not do. 
Breathing and sounding beauteous 

battle, comes 
With the air of the trumpet round 

him, and leaps in 




1 




xm 1 \ ->. 9 \ 1 nr 


1 






66 77ie Princess 


; A Medley. 


Among the women, snares them by the 


Of sovereign artists ; not a thought, a 






score 


touch, ' ° ' . 


_ 








Flatter'd and fluster'd, wins, tho' 


But pure as lines of green that streak 


1? 






eAa dash'd with deatli 


the white O^ 






He reddens what he kisses: thus I 


Of the first snowdrop's inner leaves ; I 






won 


sav. 






Vour mother, a good mother, a good 


Not like 'the piebald miscellany, man. 






wife. 


Bursts of great heart and slips in 






Worth winnini;; but this firebrand- 


sensual mire. 






gentleness 


But whole and one : and take them 






To such as her ! if Cyril spake her 


all-in-all. 








Were we ourselves but half as good, 






To catch a dragon in a cherrv net, 


as kind, 






To trip a tigre>s with a gossamer, 


As truthful, much that Ida claims as 






Were wisdom to it.' 


right 






■ Vea but Sire,' I cried. 


Mad ne'er been mooted, but as frankly 






' Wild natures need wise curbs. The 


theirs 






soldier.' No: 


As dues of Nature. To our point : not 






What dares not Ida do that she should 
prize 


Lest I lose all.' 






The soldier ? I beheld her. when she 


' Nay, nav, you spake but sense' 
Said Gama. 'We remember love 






The yesternight, and storming in 


ourself 






extremes. 


In our sweet youth ; we did not rate 






.Stood for her cause, and flung defiance 


him then 






down 


This red-hot iron to be shaped with 






Gagelike to man, and had not shunn'd 


blows. 






the death. 


You talk almost like Ida: she can 






No, not the soldier's: vet I hold her, 


talk; 






king. 


And there is something in it as you 






True woman : but vou clash them all 


say: 






in one. 


But you talk kindlier : we esteem you 






That have as many differences as we. 


for it.— 






The violet varies from the lilv as far 


He seems a gracious and a gallant 






As oak from elm : one l6ves the 


Prince, 






soldier, one 


I would he had our daughter : for the 






The silken priest of peace, one this. 


rest, 






one that. 


Our own detention, whv, the causes 






And some unworthily ; their sinless 


weigh'd,— 






faith. 


Fatherly fears— you used us cour- 






A maiden moon that sparkles on a sty, 


teouslv— 






Glorifying clown and satyr ; whence 


We would do much to gratify your 






they need 


Prince- 






More breadth of culture : is not Ida 


We pardon it; and for vour ingress 






right } 


here 






They worth it .' truer to the law within ? 


Upon the skirt and fringe of our fair 






.Severer in the logic of a life.' 


'^"d. 






«Y? Twice as magnetic to sweet influences 


You did but come as goblins m the <^ 








. Of earth and heaven ? and she of 


night. 










whom vou speak. 


Nor in the furrow broke the plough- 


■■ 








My mother, looks as whole as some 


man's head. 










serene 


Nor burnt the grange, nor buss'd the 








^ 


Creation minted in the golden moods 

K, , - 


milking-maid, 

"M 


:] 




Hi 13 I 1 1 Lfjy 




1 




The Princess; A Medley. 



of 

oval word 

coiiies back safe) ride with us to 
our lines, 

Arac's word is 

:thing may be 

sliall see 



Nor robb'd the farmer of his bo 

cream : 
But let vour Princ 



And speak with Arac 

thrice 
As ours with Ida : so 



I know not what— and oi 

us friends. 
Vou, likewise, our late guests, if so 

Follow us : who knows? we four may 

build some plan 
Foursquare to opposition.' 

Here he reach'd 
White hands of farewell to my sire, 

who growl' d 
An answer which, half-muffled in his 

beard. 
Let so much out as gave us leave to 

go- 

Then rode we with the old king 

across the lawns 
Beneath huge trees, a thousand rings 

of Spring 
In every bole, a song on every spray 
Of birds that piped their Valentines, 

" and woke 
Desire in me to infuse my tale of love 
In the old king's ears, who promised 

help, and oozed 
All o'er with honey'd answer as we 

rode 
And blossom-fragrant slipt the heavy 

dews 
Gather'd by night and peace, with 

each light air 
On our mail'd heads: but other 

thoughts than Peace 
Burnt in us, when we saw the embat- 
tled sqi 
Iror 

^ the flowers 
With clamor : for among them rose : 




Beat ; merrily-blowing shrill'd the 

martial tife; 
And in the blast and bray of the long 

horn 
And serpent-throated Inigle, undu- 




lated 
The banner : anon to 

pranced 
Three captains out : 



t us lightly 
ever had I 
lidmost and 



Such thews of men 

the highest 
Was Arac : all about his motion 

clung 
The shadow of his sister, as the beam 
Of the East, that play'd upon them, 

made them glance 
Like those three stars of the airy 

Giant's rone. 
That glitter burnish'd by the frosty 

dark ; 
.•\nd as the fiery Sirius alters hue. 
And bickers into red and emerald, 

shone 
Their morions, wash'd with morning, 

as they came. 

And I that prated peace, when first 

I heard 
War-music, felt the blind wildbeastof 

force. 
Whose home is in the sinews of a 

man. 
Stir in me as to strike : then took the 

king 
His three broad sons ; with now a 

wandering hand 
And now a pointed finger, told them 



A common light of : 

guise 
Broke from their 1 

windy jest 
Had labor'd down 



5s, and, ere the 
■ithin his ample 



The genial giant, Arac, roll'd himself 
Thrice in the saddle, then burst out in 
words. 

' Our land invaded, 'sdeath ! and he 
himself 
Your captive, yet my father w 





21ic Princess; A Mcdkw 



And, 'sdeath ! myself, what care I, 

war or no ? 
But then this question of your troth 



And there'; 



a downright honest mean- 
her ; 
high, she flies too high ! 



She prest and prest it on me — I my- 
self, 

What know I of these things? but, 
life and soul ! 

I thought her half-right talking of her 

high, 'sdeath ! what 

of woman- 
id, 
I often told her, right or 

those 

wrong, 1 care not : this 
IS all, 
I stand upon her side : she made me 

by 



I say she flies 
of that ; 
I take her for the 



And 

wrong. 
And, Prince, shec 

she loves. 
And, right or wrong, 1 care 



'Sdeath — and with solemr 

candle-light- 
Swear by St. something — I forget her 



Her tha 
She wa 



Ik'd down the fifty v 
princess too ; and 



ill not : waive 
I field, what else, 
against my fath- 



If not, the foughi 
Decides it, 'sdeall 



I lagg'd in ; 
My jjrecontrat 

To cleave the rift of difference deeper 

of those two brothers, half 
aside 
And fingering at the hair about his lip. 
To prick us on to combat ' Like to 





The woman's garment 

man's heart.' 
A taunt that clench'd his 

a blow I 
For fiery-short was Cv 

scoff. 
And sharp I answer'd, touch'd upon 

the point 
Where idle boys are cowards to their 

shame, 
' Decide it here : why not ? we are 

three to three.' 



three 



Then spake the third ' Bu 
to three ? no more ? 

No more, and in our noble sister's 
cause .'' 

More, more, for honor : every cap- 
tain waits 

Hungry for honor, angry for his king. 

More, inore, some fifty on a side, that 
each 

May breathe himself, and quick ! by 
overthrow 

Of these or those, the question settled 
die.' 

'Yea,' answer'd I, 'for this wild 

wreath of air. 
This flake of rainbow flying on the 

highest 
Foam of men's deeds — this honor, if 

ye will. 
It need's must be for honor if at all : 
Since, what decision .' if we fail, we 

fail. 
And if we win, we fail : she would not 

keep 
Her compact.' ' 'Sdeath ! but we will 

send to her,' 
Said Arac, ' worthy reasons why she 

should 
Bide bv this issue: let our missive 



thr 



■ Bovs I 



bv the 



iek'd the old king, bu 

vainlier than a hen 
To her false daughters in the 

for none 
Regarded; neither seem'd I here 





'With two tame leopards CRoncH'D beside her throne"— /iii'f ji. 




The Princess; A Medley. 



y father's camp 

a herald to the 

Id cede our 



Or by denial flush her babbling wells 
With her own people's life: three 

times he went : 
The first, he blew and blew, but none 

appear'd : 
He batter'd at the doors ; none came : 

the next, 
An awful voice within had warn'd him 

thence : 
The third, and those eight daugliters 

of the plough 
Came sallying thro' the gates, and 

caught his hair, 
And so belabor'd him on rib and cheek 
They made him wild : not less one 

glance he caught 
Thro' open doors of Ida station'd 

there 
Unshaken, clinging to her purpose, 

firm 
Tho' compass'd by two armies and 

the noise 
Of arms ; and standing like a stately 

Pine 
Set in a cataract on an island-crag. 
When storm is on the heights, and 

right and left 
Suck'd from the dark heart of the 

long hills roll 
The torrents, dash'd to the vale : and 

yet her will 
lired will in me to overcome it or fall. 

But when I told the king that I was 
pledged 
To fight in tourney for my bride, he 



Hi 



palms together with a cry ; 
would tilt it out among the 



lads : 



liut overborne by all his bearded lords 
With reasons drawn from age and 

state, perforce 
He yielded, wroth and red, with fierce 



bold knight 





And sware to combat for my cl. 



All on this side the palace ran the 

field 
Flat to the garden-wall: and likewise 

here. 
Above the garden's glowing blossom- 



A column'd ( 



shone and marble 



And great bronze valves, emboss'd 
with Tomyris 

And what she did to Cyrus after fight. 

But now fast barr'd : so here upon the 
fiat 

All that long morn the lists were 
hammer'd up. 

And all that morn the heralds to and 
fro. 

With message and defiance, went and 
came ; 

Last, Ida's answer, in a royal hand. 

But shaken here and there, and roll- 
ing words 

Oration-like. I kiss'd it and I read. 



have knovi 



the 



'O brothe 

pangs we felt, 
What heats of indignation when we 

Of those that iron-cramp'd their 

women's feet ; 
Of lands'n which at the altar the poor 

bride 
Gives her harsh groom for bridal-gift 

a scourge ; 
Of living hearts that crack within the 

Where smoulder their dead despots ; 

and of those, — 
Mothers, — that, all prophetic pity, 

fling 
Their jjretty maids in the running 

flood, and swoops 
The vulture, beak and talon, at the 

heart 
Made for all noble motion : and I 



That 
With 



aual baseness 





Millions of throats 
civil righits, 

No woman named: therefore I set my 
face 

Against all men, and lived but for 
mine own. 

Far off from men I built a fold for 
them 1 

I stored it full of rich memorial : 

I fenced it round with gallant insti- 
tutes, 

And biting laws to scare the beasts of 
prey 

A nd prosper'd ; till a rout of saucy boys 

Brake on us at our books, and marr'd 

Mask'd like our maids, blustering I 

know not what 
Of insolence and love, some pretext 

held 



Of babv 



olh. 



Seal'd not the bond — the striplings 

for their sport !— 
I tamed my leopards : shall I 

tame these ? 
Orvou ? or I ? for since you think 



iich'< 



In hon 



laUe— 



pur 



Your prowess, Arac, and wha 

er's blood 
You draw from, fight ; you f; 

abide 
What end soever : fail you v 



Take 



life : he risk'd it for my 
ives : yet whatsoe'er you 
ke and 



His moth 

do, 
Fight and fight well ; ! 

strike home. O dear 
Brothers, the woman's Angel guards 

The sole men to be mingled with our 
cause, 
le men we shall prize in the 

hallow'd, and vour 




We plant a solid foot into the Time, 
And mould a generation strong to 

move 
With claim on claim from right to 

right, till she 
Whose name is yoked with children's, 

know herself ; 
And Knowledge in our own land 

make her free. 
And, ever following those two crowned 

the 



Commerce and conquest, sho 

fiery grain 
Of freedom broadcast over 



Between the Northern ; 



11 that 
d the .South- 



Then came a postscript dash'd 
across the rest. 

' See that there be no traitors in your 
camp: 

We seem a nest of traitors — none tO' 
trust 

Since our arms fail'd — this Egypt- 
plague of men ! 

Almost our maids were better at 
their homes, 

Than thus man-girdled here : indeed 
I think 

Ourchiefest comfort is the little child 

Of one unworthy mother; which she 
left: 

She shall not have it back : the child 
shall grow 

To prize the authentic mother of her 
mind. 

I took it for an hour in mine own bed 

This morning : there the tender or- 
phan hands 

Felt at my heart, and seem'd to charm 
from thence 

The wrath I nursed against the world : 
farewell.' ' 



I ceased; he said, 'Stnbboi 
she may sit 
Upon a king's right hand 



And breed up warriors ! Sc 

tho' yourself 
Be dazzled by the wildfire Love 

sloughs 





That swallow common sense, the 

spindling kmg, 
This Gama swanip'd in lazy toler- 

When the man wants weight, the 

woman takes it up. 
And topples down the scales; but 

this is fixt 
As are the roots of earth and base of 

all; 
Man for the field, and woman for the 

hearth : 
Man for the sword and for the needle 

she: 
Man with the head and woman with 

the heart : 
Man to command and woman to obey ; 
All else confusion. Look vou ! the 



gray mare 
shrill 



th, when her 
lerv, and he 



small 
le the 
-she's 
oom'd 



goodman 
Shrinks in his arm chaii 

fires o£ Hell 
Mix with his hearth : but 

yet a colt — 
Take, break her : strong 

and straitly curb'd 
She might not rank with those de- 
testable 
That let the bantling scald at home, 

and brawl 
Their rights or wrongs like potherbs 

in the street. 
They say she's comely ; there's the 

fairer chance : 
/like her none the less for rating at 

her! 
liesides, the woman wed is not as we, 
l!ut suffers change of frame. A lusty 

brace 
Of twins mav weed her of her follv. 

Boy, 
The bearing and the training of a 

child 
Is woman's wisdom.' 

Thus the hard old king : 
3k my leave, for it was nearly 

noon : 
ed upon her letter which I held, 
on the little clause ' take not his 




I mused on that wild morning in the 
woods, 

And on the ' Follow, follow, thou 
Shalt win : ' 

I thought on all the wrathful king had 
said. 

And how the strange betrothment 
was to end : 

Then I remember'd that burnt sor- 
cerer's curse 

That one should fight with shadows 



King, camp and college turn'd to 

hollow shows ; 
I seem'd to move in old memorial tilts. 
And doing battle with forgotten 

ghosts. 
To dream myself the shadow of a 

dream : 
And ere I woke it was the point of 

noon, 
The lists were ready. Empanoplied 

and plumed 
We enter'd in, and waited, fifty there 
Opposed to fifty, till the trumpet 

blared 
At the barrier like a wild horn in a land 
Of echoes, and a moment, and once 

The trumpet, and again • at which the 

Of galloping hoofs bare on the ridge 

of spears 
And riders front to front, until they 

closed 
In conflict with the crash of shivering 



nts. 



And thunder. Yet 

I dream'd 
Of fighting. On h 



And : 

lance 
And out of stricken 

the fire. 
Part sat like rocks 

kept their st 
Part 

Part 



seem'd a dream, 

i haunches rose 
teed, 
fiery splinters leapt the 

s sprang 





The Princess; A Medley. 



From those two bulks at Arac's side, 
and down 

From Arac's arm, as from a giant's 
flail, 

The large blows rain'd, as here and 
everywhere 

He rode the mellay, lord of the ring- 
ing lists. 

And all the plain, — brand, mace, and 
shaft, and shield — 

Shock'd, like an iron-clanging anvil 
bang'd 

With hammers ; till I thought, can 
this be he 

From Gama's dwarfish loins ? if this 
be so. 

The mother makes us most — and in 
my dream 

I glanced aside, and saw the palace- 
front 

Alive with fluttering Scarfs and ladies' 
eyes. 

And highest, among the statues, 
statuelikci 

Between a cymbal'd Miriam and a 
Jael, 

With Psyche's babe, was Ida watching 
us, 

A single band of gold about her hair. 

Like a Saint's glory up in heaven : 
but she 

No saint — inexorable — no tender- 
ness— 

Too hard, too cruel : yet she sees me 
fight, 

Yea, let her see me fall ! with that I 
drave 

Among the thickest and bore down a 
Prince, 

And Cyril, one. Yea, let me make 
my dream 

All that' I would. But that large- 
moulded man, 

His visage ail agrin as at a wake. 

Made at me thro' the press, and, stag- 
gering back 

With stroke on stroke the horse and 
horseman, came 

As conies a pillar of electric cloud. 

Flaying the roofs and sucking up the 





On a wood, and takes, and breaks, 

and cracks, and splits, 
And twists the grain with such a roar 

that Earth 
Reels, and the herdsmen cry ; for 

everythinc 
Gave way bc'.ore him: only Florian, 

he' 
That loved me i lo .er than his own 

right eye, 
Thrust in between ; but Arac rode 

him down ; 
And Cyril seeing it, push'd against 

the Prince, 
With Psyche's color round his helmet, 

tough. 
Strong, supple, sinew-corded, apt at 



i-ier, stronger, he that 
felt 



But tougher, he 



And threw him : last I spur 

my veins 
Stretch with fierce heat ; a moment 

hand to hand, 
And sword to sword, and horse to 

horse we hung, 
Till I struck out and shouted ; the 

blade glanced, 
I did but shear a feather, and dream 

and truth 
Flow'd from me ; darkness closed 

me : and I fell. 



Home they brought her warrior dead : 

AU her maidens, watching, said, 
' She must weep or she will die.' 

Then they praised him, soft and low, 
Caird him worthy to be loved. 

Truest friend and noblest foe; 
Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place. 
Lightly to the warrior stept, 

Took the face-cloth from the face ; 
Yet she neither moved nor wept. 





The Princess; A Medley. 



My dream had never died or lived 

again. 

As in some mystic middle state I lay ; 

Seeing I saw not, hearing not I heard : 

Tho", if I saw not, yet they told me all 

So often that I speak as having seen. 

For so it seem'd, or so they said to 

That all things grew more tragic and 

That when our side was vanquish'd 

and my cause 
For ever lost, there went up a great 

The Priiice is slain. My father heard 

and ran 
In on the lists, and there unlaced my 

casque 
And grovell'd on my body, and after 

him 
Came Psyche, sorrowing for Aglaia. 

But high upon the palace Ida stood 
With Psyche's babe in arm : there on 

the roofs 
Like that great dame of Lapidoth she 

sang. 



•o 


renemie 
seed, 


havefall'n, 


lave fall'n : the 


Thel 


tile seed they laugh'd 


at in the dark, 


Hasr 


sen and 
bulk 


cleft the so 


1, and grown a 


Of spanless girth, that lays 


on every side 


A tho 


usand am 


sand rushes 


to the Sun. 


• Our enemi 


s have fall 


n, have fall'n 




they came ; 




The 


eaves we 


re wet with 


women's tears 




they heard 




Anoi 


eof songs they would 


not understand 


They 


raark'd 
fall, 


t with the r 


ed cross to the 


And 


vould ha 
themselv 


ve strown i 


, and are fall'n 


'0 


jr enemie 


s have fall' 


n, have fall'n 



The woodmen with their axes ; lo I 
Rut we will make it faggots for th( 
And shape it plank and beam for 





fall 



A night of Su; 

breadth 
Of Autumn, dropping fruit 

roll'd 
With music in the growing 
The tops shall strike from 

Shall move the stony bases 



the shoulder 

iUt this shall 

from the heat, a 

of power : and 



, the 



the world, 
behold our 



' And now, O mai 
sanctuary 
Is violate, our laws broken : fear we 



their behoof, 
ith 



To break them more i 

whose arms 
Champion'd our cause and wo 

a day 
Blanch'd in our annals, and perpetual 

feast. 
When dames and heroines of the 

golden year 
Shall strip a hundred hollows bare of 

Spring, 
To rain an April of ovation round 
Their statues, borne aloft, the three : 



but 



We 






nee our rights 
the tents with 
I proffer 
d cause, 



Let them not lie in th 

coarse mankind, 
111 nurses; but descend 

these 
The brethren of our bloc 

that there 
Lie bruised and maim'd, the tender 

ministries 
Of female hands and hospitality.' 

She spoke, and with the babe yet 



Descendinc;, burst th 
valves, and led 




1 




j<v| 1 fa^ !■ 1 \ rrh. 




74 'JVic Princess 




A luiinlred maids in train across the 


The haggard father's face and rever- 




Park. 


end beard . . 






Some cowl'd and some bare-headed, 


Of grisly twine, all dabbled with the 1 






tAs on thev came. 


blood di 






Their feet in'flowers, her loveliest . by 


Of his own son, shudder'd, a twitch of 






them went 


pain 






The enamorVl air sigliing. and on 


Tortured her mouth, and o'er herfore- 






their cnrls 


liead past 






From the high tree the blossom wav- 


A shadow, and her hue changed, and 






ering fell, 


she said: 






And over them the tremulous isles of 


' He saved my life: my brother slew 






light 


him for' it.' 






Slided, thev moving under shade- 


No more; at which the king in bitter 






but Blanche 


scorn 




] 


At distance follovv'd : so they came : 


Drew from my neck the painting and 






anon 


the tress. 






Thro' open field into the lists they 


And held them up : she saw them. 






wound 


and a day 






Timorously ; and as the leader of the 


Rose from the distance on her mem- 






herd 


ory. 






That holds a stately fretwork to the 


When the good Queen, her mother. 






Sun, 


shore the tress 






And follow'd up by a hundred airy 


With kisses, ere the days of Lady 






does, 


Blanche • 






Steps with a tender foot, light as on 


And then once more she look'd at 






air, 


my pale face 






The loveiv. lordly creature floated on 


Till understanding all the foolish 






To %vhere'lier wounded brethren lay , 


work 






there stay'd ; 


Of Fancy, and the bitter close of all. 






Knelt on one knee,— the child on one. 


Her iron will was broken in her mind ; 






— and prest 


Her noble heart was molten in her 






Their hands, and call'd them dear de- 


breast ; 






liverers, 


She bow'd, she set the child on the 






And happy warriors, and immortal 


earth ; she laid 






names. 


A feeling finger on my brows, and 
presently 






And said ' You shall not lie in the 






tents but here 


' O Sire," she said, ' he lives ; he is not 






And nursed by those for whom vou 


dead: 






fought, and served 


O let me have him with my brethren 






With female hands and hospitality.' 


here 
In our own palace: we will tend on 






Then, whether moved by this, or 


him 






was it chance. 


Like one of these; if so, by any 






She past my way. ' Up started from 


means, 






my side 


To lieihten this great clog of thanks. 






The old lion, glaring with his whelp- 


that make 






less eye, 


Our progress falter to the woman's 






'y Silent; but when she saw me lying 


goal.' °Y 






Dishelm'd and mute, and motionlessly 


She said : but at the happy word 






pale. 


' he lives ' 






Cold ev'n to her, she si^h'd : and 


My father stoop' d, re-father'd o'er my 






when she saw 


wounds. 




vH 1 1-3 I 1 \ Luy 












The Princess; A Mcdky. 



So those two foes above my fallen 

life, 
With brow to brow like night and 

evening mixt 
Tlieir dark and gray, while Psyche 

everstule 
A little nearer, till the babe that by 

us, 
Half-lapt in glowing gauze and gulden 

brede, 
Lay like a new-fall'n meteor on the 

grass, 
Uncarcd for, spied its mother and 

began 
A blind and babbling laughter, and to 

dance 
Its body, and reach its fatling innocent 

And lazy lingering fingers. She the 

appeal 
Krook'd not, but clamoring out 'Mine 



Ceased all on tremble: piteous was 

the cry: 
So stood the unhappy mother open- 

mouth'd. 
And turn'd each face her way: wan 

was her cheek 
With hollow watch, her blooming 

Red grief and mother's hunger in her 

eye. 
And down dead-heavy sank her curls, 

and half 
The sacred mother's bosom, panting, 

burst 
The laces toward her babe ; but she 

nor cared 
Nor knew it, clamoring on, till Ida 

heard, 
Look'd up, and rising slowly from me, 

stood 
Erect and silent, striking with her 

glance 
The mother, me, the child ; but he that 





At the arm'd man side 

it seen.'d. 
Or self-involved; but when she learnt 

his face. 
Remembering his ill-omen'd song, 

arose 
Once more thro' all her height, and 

Tall as a ligure tengthen'd on the sand 
When the tide ebbs in sunshine, and 
he said: 



But Love and Nature, these are two 

mure terrible 
And stronger. See, your foot is on 

We vanquish'd, vou the Victor of your 

will. 
What would you more ? give her the 

child ! remain 
Orb'd in your isolation: he is dead. 
Or all as dead; henceforth we let you 



Wii 


you the hearts of woinen ; and 




beware 




Les 


, where you seek the 
love of these, 


common 


The 


common hate with the 
wheel 


revolving 


Sho 


uld drag you down, and some 




great Nemesis 




Break from a darken'd future 


, crown'd 




with fire. 




And tread vou out for ever: 


but how- 



Fix'd in yourself, never in your own 

To hold your own, deny not hers to 

her, 
Give her the child! O if, I say, you 

keep 

n, if 

dan- 



One pulse that beats true wo 

vou loved 
The breast that fed or arm tli 

died you, 
Or own one port of sense not flint 



the child! or if 





The Princess; A Medley. 



Yourself, in hands so lately claspt 

with yours, 
Or speak to her, your dearest, her one 

fault 
The tenderness, not yours, that could 

not kill, 
Give me it : / will give it her.' 

He said: 
At first her eye with slow dilation 

roU'd 

listening : after sank 



Dry fl£ 
And, i' 



.nd sank 



nful 



light mellow- 
he took it : 



ing, dwelt 
Full on the child 

' Pretty bud ! 
Lily of the vale ! half open'd bell of 

the woods ! 
Sole comfort of my dark hour, when 

a world 
Of traitorous friend and broken sys- 
tem made 
No purple in the distance, mystery. 
Pledge of a love not to be mine, 

farewell ; 
These men are hard upon us as of 

old, 
We two must part ; and yet how fain 

was I 
To dream thy cause embraced in mine, 

to think 
I might be something to thee, when I 

felt 
Thy helpless warmth about my barren 

breast 
In the dead prime: but may thy 

mother prove 
As true to thee as false, false, false to 

And, if thou needs must bear the 

yoke, I wish it 
Gentle as freedom ' — here she kiss'd 

it: then— 
' All good go with thee ! take it Sir,' 

and so 
Laid the soft babe in his hard-mailed 

Who turn'd half-round to Psyche as 

she sprang 
To meet it, with an e^-e that swum in 

thanks; 
Then felt it sound and whole from 

head to foot. 





And hugg'd and never hugg'd 

And in her hunger mouth'd and 

mumbled it. 
And hid her bosom with it ; after that 
Put on more calm and added suppli- 

antly: 

'We two were friends: I go to 

mine own land 
For ever : find some other : as for me 
I scarce am fit for your great plans : 

yet speak to me. 
Say one soft word and let me part 

forgiven.' 

But Ida spoke not, rapt upon the 

child. 
Then Arac. ' Ida— 'sdeath ! vou 

blame the man; 
You wrong yourselves — the woman is 

so hard 
Upon the woman. Come, a grace to 

I am your warrior: I and mine have 

fought 
Your battle: kiss her; take her hand, 

she weeps 
'Sdeath ! I would sooner fight thrice 

o'er than see it.' 

But Ida spoke not, gazing on the 

ground, 
And reddening in the furrows of his 

chin. 
And moved beyond his custom, 

Gama said : 

' I've heard that there is iron in the 
blood. 
And I believe it. Not one word.' not 

Whence drew you this steel temper? 

not from me. 
Not from vour mother, now a saint 

with'saints. 
She said vou had a heart— I heard 

hersavit— 



Our Ida has a hear 


"-just ere she 








,e with authority 


Je near her still " 


ind I— 1 sought 





The Princess; A Medley. 



All people sa 


d sh 


ha 


d authority— 


The lllv I 


lane 


le : 


much 


profit ! 


Not on 


wo 


d; 






No! tho' VOL 


r father 


sues : 


see how 


you sta 


k1 








Stiff as Lot's 


wife 


an 


d all the good 


knights 


inai 


11 'd, 






I trust that 


here 


IS 


10 one 


hurt to 


death, 










Fr your wile 


whi 


m : 


and wa 


s it then 


for this 










Was it for tl 


is w 


e gave ou 


r palace 


up, 










Where we w 


ithdr 


ew 


from 


summer 


heats a 


id St 


ate. 






And had our 


vine 


and 


chess 


beneath 



the planes, 
And many a pleasant hour with her 

that's gone. 
Ere you were born to vex us } Is it 

kind ? 
Speak to her I say : is this not she of 

whom. 
When first she came, all flush'd you 

said to me 
Now had you got a friend of your own 

age. 
Now could you share your thought : 

now should men see 
Two women faster welded in one love 
Than pairs of wedlock ; she you 

walk'd with, she 
You talk'd with, whole nights long, 

up in the tower. 
Of sine and arc, spheroid and azi- 
muth, 
And right ascension. Heaven knows 

what ; and now 
A word, but one, one little kindly 

word, 
Not one to spare her: out upon you, 

flint ! 
You love nor her, nor me, nor any ; 

nay. 
You shame your mother's judgment 

too. Not one ? 
You will not? well— no heart have 

you, or such 
As fancies like the vermin in a nut 
Have fretted all to dust and bitter- 



So said the small king moved beyond 





But Ida stood nor spoke, drain'd of 

her force 
By many a varying influence and so 

long. 
Down thro' her limbs a drooping 

languor wept : 
Her head a little bent ; and on her 

mouth 
A doubtful smile dwelt like a clouded 

moon 
In a still water ; then brake out my 

sire, 
Lifting his grim head from my 

wounds. ' O you. 
Woman, whom we thought woman 

even now, 
And were half fool'd to let you tend 

our son. 
Because he might have wish'd it — but 

we see 
The accomplice of your madness 

unforgiven, 
And think that you might mix his 

draught with death. 
When your skies change again : the 

rougher hand 
Is safer : on to the tents : take up the 

Prince.' 



He rose, and 


while each ea 


was 


prick'd to 


attend 




A tem|)est, thro' the cloud 


that 


dimm'd he 


broke 




A genial warmth 


and light once 


more. 


and shone 






Thro' glittering 


drops on her 


sad 


friend. 








'Come hither. 


O Psvche,' she 


cried out, 'em 


brace 


me. come. 






Quick while I melt; make reconcile- 


With uv.v tn.it cannot keep her 


mind 


Come to the 


hollow heart 


thev 



slander so! 
Kiss and be friends, like children 

being chid ! 
/ seem no more : / want forgiveness 





The Princess; A Medley. 



That have no links with men. Ah 

false but clear, 
Dear traitor, too much loved, why? — 

why ? — Yet see, 
Before these kings we embrace you 

yet once more 
With all forgiveness, all oblivion, 
And trust, not love, you less. 

And now, O sire. 
Grant me your son, to nurse, to wait 

upon him. 
Like mine own brother. For my debt 

to him. 
This nightmare weight of gratitude, I 

know it ; 
Taunt me no more : yourself and yours 

shall have 
Free adit ; we will scatter all our maids 
Till happier times each to her proper 

hearth : 
What use to keep them here— now ? 

grant my prayer. 
Help, father, brother, help ; speak to 

the king: 
Thaw this male nature to some touch 

of that 
Which kills me with myself, and drags 

me down 
From my fi.xt height to mob me up 

with all 
The soft and milky rabble of woman- 
kind. 
Poor weakling ev'n as they are.' 

Passionate tears 
FoUow'd: the king replied not: Cyril 

said : 
' Your brother, Lady,— Florian,— ask 

for him 
Of your great head — for he is wounded 



d upon him with the 



That you n 

' Ay so,' said Ida with a bitter smile, 
'Our laws are broken : let him enter 

too.' 
Then Violet, she that sang the mourn- 
ful song, 
And had a cousin tumbled on the plain, 
Petition'd too for him. ' Av so,' she 





We break o 

it be,' 

' Ay so .> ' sa 


ir laws with ease 
d Blanche : ' Ama 


but let 
zed am 


Youi 


I to hear 
Highness: but your 


11 


ghness 


The 




5 with ease 
r Highness did 


lO 


make: 


I had been v 

kind, 

And biock'd 


edded wife, I kne 
them out ; but the 


w man- 
se men 


Your 


nfghn 


.ss-verily I th 


nk 


to win.' 



So she, and turn'd aska 
eye: 
But Ida with a voice, that 
Toll'd by an earthquake ii 



' Fling our doors wide ! all, all, not 

one, but all. 
Not onlv he, but by my mother's soul, 
Whatever man lies wounded, friend or 

foe, 
Shall enter, if he will. Let our girls 

flit. 
Till the storm die ! but had vou stood 

by us, 
The roar that breaks the Pharos from 

his base 
Had left us rock. She fain would 

sting us too, 



But 


shall n 


ot. Pass, anc 


mingle with 




vour 


likes. 




We 


brook 
gone 


lo further in 


suit but are 


si- 


e tun 


'd ; the very 


nape of her 




white neck 




W.1S 


rosed 


with indigna 


ion : but the 




Prince 




Her 


brothe 
char 


r came ; the ki 
I'd 


.g her father 


Her 


wounded soul with 


words : nor 




didn 


line own 




Refu 


se her 


proffer, las 


ly gave h.s 





A Medley. 



Straight to the doors : to them the 

doors gave way 
Groaning, and in the Vestal entry 

shriek'd 

The virgin marble under iron heels : 
And on they moved and gain'd the hall, 

and there 
Rested : but great the crush was, and 

each base, 
To le£t and right, of those tall columns 

drown'd 
In silken fluctuation and the swarm 
Of female whisperers : at the further 

end 
Was Ida by the throne, the two great 

Close bv her, like supporters on a 

shield, 
Bovv-back'd with fear : but in the 

centre stood 
The common men with rolling eyes; 

amazed 
They glared upon the women, and 

aghast 
The women stared at these, all silent, 

save 
When armor clash'd or jingled, while 

the day, 
Descending, struck athwart the hall, 

and shot 
A flying splendor out of brass and steel, 
That o'er the statues leapt from head 

to head. 
Now fired an angry Pallas on the 

helm. 
Now set a wrathful Dian's moon on 

flame. 
And now and then an echo started up. 
And shuddering fled from room to 

room, and died 
Of fright in far apartments. 

Then the voice 
Of Ida sounded, issuing ordinance : 
And me they bore up the broad stairs, 

and thro' 
The long-laid galleries past a hundred 

To one deep chamber shut from sound, 

and due 
To languid limbs and sickness; left 

otherwhere they laid ; and 




That afternoon a soun 
And chariot, many a 




of hoof 
den passing 
home 
Till happier times ;b 

of those 
Held sagest, and the great lords out 

From those two hosts that lay beside 

the walls, 
Walk'd at their will, and everything 

was changed. 



VII 



The cloud may stoop froa 


heaven and 


lake the shape 




With fold to fold, of mount 


lin or of cape; 


ut too fond, when hav 


e 1 answer'd 


thee? 





vhat answer should I 



should bid thee 



So was their sanctuary violated, 
So their fair college turn'd to hospital ; 
At first with all confusion : by and by 
Sweet order lived again with other 

laws: 
A kindlier influence reign'd ; and 

everywhere 
Low voices with the ministering hand 
Hung round the sick : the maidens 

came, they talk'd, 
They sang, they read : till she not fair 

began 
To gather light, and she that 

became 





The Frinccss; A Medley. 



Her former beauty treble ; and to and 

fro 
With books, with flowers, with Angel 

Like creatures native unto gracious 

And in their own clear element, they 
moved. 

But sadness on the soul of Ida fell, 
And hatred of her weakness, blent 

with shame. 
Old studies fail'd ; seldom she spoke : 

but oft 
Clomb to the roofs, and gazed alone 

for hours 
On that disastrous leaguer, swarms of 

Darkening her female field : void was 

her use. 
And she as one that climbs a peak to 

gaze 
O'er land and mam, and sees a great 

black cloud 
Drag inward from the deeps, a wall of 

night. 
Blot out the slope of sea from verge 

to shore 
And suck the blinding splendor from 

the sand. 
And quenching lake by lake and tarn 

Expunge the world : so fared she gaz- 



ther 



So blacken'd all her world in secret, 

blank 
And waste it seem'd and vain ; till 

down she came, 
And found fair peace once more 

among the sick. 

And twilight dawn'd; and morn by 
morn the lark 
Shot up and shrill'd in flickering gyres, 

but I 
Lay silent in the muffled cage of life : 
And twilight gloom'd ; and broader- 
grown the bowers 
Drew the great night into themselves, 

and Heaven, 
Star after star, arose and fell ; but I, 
Deeper than those weird doubts could 
reach me, lay 





Quite sunder'd from the : 

verse, 
Nor knew what eve was on n)e, nor 

the hand 
That nursed me, more than infants in 

their sleep. 

But Psyche tended Florian : with 

her oft, 
Melissa came ; for Blanche had gone, 

but left 
Her child among us, willing she 

should keep 
Court-favor : here and there the 

small bright head, 
A light of healing, glanced about the 

couch. 
Or thro' the parted silks the tender 

face 
Peep'd, shining in upon the wounded 

With blush and smile, a medicine in 

themselves 
To wile the length from languorous 

hours, and draw 
The sting from pain ; nor seem'd it 

strange that soon 
He rose up whole, and those fair 

Joiii'd at her side; nor stranger 

seem'd that hearts 
So gentle, so employ'd, should close 

Than when two dewdrops on the petal 

shake 
To the same sweet air, and tremble 

deeper down, 
And slip at once all-fragrant into one. 

Less prosperously the second suit 

obtain'd 
At first with Psyche. Not tho" 

Blanche had sworn 
That after that dark night amo,.g the 

fields 
She needs must wed him for her own 

good name ; 
Not tho' he built upon the babe re- 
stored ; 
Nor tho' she liked him, yielded she, 

but fear'd 
To incense the Head once mnre ; I'l 

on a day 





The Princess; A Medley. 



When Cyril pleaded, Ida came behind 
•Seen but of Psyche : on her foot she 



A moment, and she heard, at which 

her face 
A little flush'd, and she past on; but 

each 
Assumed from thence a half-consent 

involved 
In stillness, plighted troth, and were 

at peace. 

Nor only these : Love in the sacred 

halls 
Held carnival at will, and flying struck 
With showers of random sweet on 

maid and man. 
Nor did her father cease to press my 

claim. 
Nor did mine own now reconciled ; 

nor yet 
Did those twin brothers, risen again 

and whole ; 
Nor Arac, satiate with his victory. 



But 



ith 



lie oft shi 



Then came a change ; for sometimes 

I would catch 
Her hand in wild delirium, gripe it 

hard, 
And fling it like a viper off, and 

shriek 
' You are not Ida; ' clasp it once again. 
And call her Ida, tho' I knew her not. 
And call her sweet, as if in irony. 
And call her hard and cold which 

seem'd a truth : 
And still she fear'd that I should lose 

And often she believed that I should 

die: 
Till out of long frustration of her care. 
And pensive tendance in the all- 



And 



ches 



the dead, the 



when clocks 
Throbb'd thunder thro' the palace 

floors, or call'd 
On flying Time from all their silver 

tongues— 
.A.nd out of memories of her kindlier 

days. 





And sidelong glances a 

grief. 
And at the happy lovers heart in 

heart — 
And out of hauntings of mv spoken 

love. 
And lonely listenings to my mutter'd 

And often feeling of the helpless 

hands. 
And wordless broodings on the wasted 

cheek — 
From all a closer interest flourish'd up. 
Tenderness touch by touch, and last, 

to these, 
Love, like an Alpine harebell hung 

with tears 
By some cold morning glacier ; frail 

at first 
And feeble, all unconscious of itself, 
Bui such as gather'd color day by day. 



well-nigh 
ng: silent 
i, wherein 



Last I woke sane. 

For weakness : it was ( 

light 
Slept on the painted 

were wrought 
Two grand designs ; for on one side 

arose 
The women up in wild revolt, and 

storm'd 
At the Oppian law. Titanic shapes, 

they cramm'd 
The forum, and half-crush'd among 

the rest 
A dwarf-like Cato cower'd. On the 

other side 
Hortensia spoke against the tax; 

behind, 
A train of dames : by axe and eagle 

With all' their foreheads drawn in 

Roman scowls, 
And half the wolf's-milk curdled in 

their veins. 
The fierce triumvirs ; and before them 

paused 
Hortensia pleading: angry was her 

face. 





The Princess; A Medley. 



They did but look like hollow shows ; 
Sweet Ida : palm to palm she sat : the 

Dwelt in her eyes, and softer all her 

shape 
And rounder seem'd : I moved: I 

sigh'd; a touch 
Came round my wrist, and tears upon 

Then all for languor and self-pity ran 
Mine down mv face, and with what 

lite I had, 
And like a flower that cannot all 

unfold, 
So drench'd it is with tempest, to the 



Yet, ; 



toward hi 



I on 



Fixt 


my faint 
peringl 


eyes 


, and 


utter'd whis- 


'If 


you be, 
sweet d 


what 


I thi 


ik you, some 


I would but as 


kvo 


u to fulfil vourself : 


But i 


vou be 


hat 


Idaw 


hom I knew. 


I ask 


you notl 


nig: 


only 


if a dream. 


Swee 


tdream. 


je perfect 


I shall die 




to-night 








Stoo 




id seem t 


o kiss me ere 



I could no more, bu 



ike one 



That hears his burial talk'd of by his 

friends. 
And cannot speak, nor move, nor 

make one sign, 
Kut lies and dreads his doom. She 

turn'd ; she paused; 
She stoo|)'d : and out of languor leapt 

Leapt fierv Passion from the brinks of 

death ; 
And I believed that in the living 

world 
Mv spirit closed with Ida's at the lips; 
Till back I fell, and from mine arms 

she 
Glowing all over noble shame ; and 

all 
Her falser self slipt from her like a 





lan, lovelier 



And left her 

mood 
Than in her mould that othe 

she came 
From barren deeps to coaquer all 

with love ; 
And down the streaming crystal dropt; 

and she 
Far-ileeted by the purple island^sides, 
Naked, a double light in air aiid wave. 
To meet her Graces, where they 

deck'd her out 
For worship without end ; nor end of 

Stateliest, for thee ! but mute she 

glided forth. 
Nor glanced behind her, and I sank 

and slept, 
FiU'd thro' and thro' witli Love, a 

happy sleep. 

Deep in the night I woke : she, 
near me, held 
A volume of the Poets of her land : 
There to herself, all in low. tones, she 
read. 



■ sleeps the 



petal. 



Nor waves the cypress in the palace \walk;;. 
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry 

font ; 
The Hre-fiy wakens ; waken thouiw.ith me. 

Now droops the milkwhite peacock like 
a ghost, 
.\nd like a ghost she glimmers on to me. 

Now lies the Earth all Danaeto the stars, 
And all ihy heart lies open unto me. 

Now slides the silent meteor on, and 



Now folds the lily all her sweetness up. 
And slips into the bosom of the lake : 
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou. aad. slip 



I heard her turn the page ; she 
found a small 
Sweet Idyl, and once more, as. low, she 
read : 





The Princess; A Medley. 



Whai pleasure lives in height (the shepherd 

sangi 
In heii,Hit and cold, the splendor of the 

But cease to move so near the Heavens, 

and cease 
To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine, 
To sit a star upon the sparkling spire ; 
And come, for Love is of the valley, come. 
For Love is of the valley, come thou down 
And find him ; by the happy threshold, he, 
Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize, 
Or red with spirted purple of the vats. 
Or foxlike in the vine ; nor cares to walk 
With Death and .Marning on the silver 

Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine, 
Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice. 
That huddling slant in furrow-cloven 

falls 
To roll the torrent out of dusky doors : 
But follow ; let the torrent dance thee 

To tind him in the valley ; let the wild 
Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave 
The monstrous ledges there to slope, and 

spill 
Their thousand wreaths of dangling water- 



Dke, 



Tha 



purpose \ 



Await thee ; azure pillars of the hearth 
Arise to thee ; the children call, and I 
Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is evei 

Sweeter thy voice, but every sound 



Myriads of rivulets 



rying thro' the 



.So she lovv-tonetJ ; while with shtit 

iiig ; then look'd. Pale was 

the perfect face; 
The bosom with long sighs labor'd ; 

and 1 
Seem'd the full lips, and mild the 

minous eves, 




And the voice trembled and the hand. 

.She said 
Brokenly, that she knew it, she had 




Tha 



all he 
block 



but 



Left in the quarry ; but she still were 

loth, 
She still were loth to yield herself to 

one 
That wholly scorn'd to help their 

equal rights 
Against the sons of men, and barbar- 
ous laws. 
She pray'd me not to judge their 

cause from her 
That wrong'd it, sought far less for 

truth than power 
In knowledge: something wild within 

her brcist, 
A greater than all knowledge, beat 

her down. 
And she had nursed me there from 

week to week : 
Much had she learnt in little time. 

In part 
It was ill counsel had misled the girl 
To ve.x true hearts : yet was she but a 

girl— 
'Ah fool, and made myself a Queen of 

farce ! 
When conies another such ? never, I 

think. 
Till the Sun drop, dead, from the 

signs.' 

Her voice 
Choked, and her forehead sank upon 

her hands, 
And her great heart thro' all the 

faultful Past 
Went sorrowing in a pause I dared 

not bre.ik ; 
Till notice of a change in the dark 

world 
Was lispt about the acacias, and a 

bird. 
That early woke to feed her little 

Sent froiTi a dewy breast a cry for 
light : 

She moved, and at her feet the vol- 
ume fell. 





The Princess ; A Medley. 



me not tliyself too much,' 
said, ' nor blame 

h the sons of men and ba 



These were the rough ways of the 

world till now. 
Henceforth thou hast a helper, me, 

that know 
The woman's cause is man's : they 

rise or sink 
Together, dwarf'd or godlike, bond or 

free : 
For she that out of Lethe scales with 

The shining steps of Nature, shares 

with man 
His nights, his days, moves with him 

to one goal. 
Stays all the fair young planet in her 

hands — ' 
If she be small, slicht-natured, miser- 
able. 
How shall men grow ? but work no 

more alone ! 
Our place is much : as far as in us 

lies 
We two \\\\\ serve them both in aid- 
ing her— 
Will clear away the parasitic forms 
That seem to keep her up but drag 

her down^ 
Will leave her space to burgeon out 

of all 
Within her— let her make herself her. 

own 
To give or keep, to live and learn and 

be 
All that not harms distinctive woman- 
hood. 
For woman is not undevelopt man, 
But diverse : could we make her as 

the man. 
Sweet Love were slain : his dearest 

bond is this. 
Not like to like, but like in difference. 
Yet in the long years liker must they 

The man be more of woman, she of 



He gain in sweetness and in moral 

height. 
Nor lose the wrestling thews that 

throw the world ; 





She mental breadth, nor fail i 

ward care, 
Nor lose the childlike in thi 

mind ; 

Till at the last she set herself to man, 
Like perfect music unto noble words ; 
And so these twain, upon the skirts 

of Time, 
Sit side by side, full-summ'd in all 

their powers, 
Dispensing harvest, sowing the To-be, 
Self-reverent each and reverencing 

each. 
Distinct in individualities. 
But like each other ev'n as those who 

Then comes the statelier Eden back 

Then reign the world's great bridals, 

chaste and calm : 
Then springs the crowning race of 

humankind. 
May these things be ! ' 

Sighing she spoke ' I fear 
They will not.' 

' Dear, but let us type them now 
In our own lives, and this proud 

watchword rest 
Of equal ; seeing either se.\ alone 
Is half itself, and in true marriage lies 
Nor equal, nor unequal: each fulfils 
Defect in each, and always thought in 

thought, 
Purpose in purpose, will in will, they 

The single pure and perfect animal. 
The two-cell'd heart beating, with one 

full stroke. 
Life.' 

And again sighing she spoke : " -A 

dream 
That once was mine ! what woman 



the> 



rid. 



foreshadowings of 



I loved the woman : he, that doth not, 

lives 
A drowning life, besotted in sweet self. 
Or pines in sad experience worse than 

death. 





The Princess ; A Medh'\ 



'd affections dipt 

Yet was there one thro' whom I 
loved her, one 

Not learned, save in gracious house- 
hold ways, 

Not perfect, nay, but full of tender 

No Angel, but a dearer being, all dipt 
In Angel instincts, breathing Para- 
Interpreter between the Gods and 

Who look'd all native to her place, 
and yet 

On tiptoe seem'd to touch upon a 
sphere 

Too gross to tread, and all male 
minds perforce 

Sway'd to her from their orbits as 
they moved. 

And girdled her with music. Happy he 

With such a mother ! faith in woman- 
kind 

Beats with his blood, and trust in all 
things high 

Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip 
and fall 

He shall not blind his soul with clay.' 
' But I,' 

Said Ida, tremulously, ' so all unlike — 

It seems you love to cheat yourself 
witli words : 

This mother is your model. I have 
heard 

Of your strange doubts: they well 
might be : I seem 

A mockery to my own self. Never, 
Prince ; 

You cannot love me.' 

' Nay but thee ' I said 

' From yearlong poring on thy 
pictured eyes. 

Ere seen I loved, and loved thee seen, 
and saw 

Thee woman thro' the crust of iron 
moods 

That mask'd thee from men's rever- 
ence up, and forced 

.Sweet love on pranks of saucy boy- 
hood : now, 

Giv'n back to life, to life indeed, thro' 




ndeed I love : the new day comes. 



thel 



.ht 




Dearer for night, as dearer thou for 

faults 
Lived over: lift thine eyes; my 

doubts are dead. 
My haunting sense of hollow shows: 

the change. 
This truthful change in thee has kill'd 

it. Dear, 
Look up, and let thy nature strike on 

Like yonder morning on the blind 

half-world; 
Approach and fear not ; breathe upon 

In that fine air I tremble, all the past 
Melts mist-like into this bright hour, 

and this 
Is morn to more, and all the rich to- 

Reels, as the golden Autumn wood- 
land reels 
Athwart the smoke of burning weeds. 

Forgive me, 
I waste my heart in signs : let be. 

My bride, 
My wife, my life. O we will walk 

this world. 
Yoked in all exercise of noble end, 
And so thro' those dark gates across 

the wild 
That no man knows. Indeed I love 

thee : come. 
Yield thyself up : my hopes and thine 

are one : 
Accomplish thou my manhood and 

thyself ; 
Lay thy sweet hands in mine and 



So closed our tale, of which I give 

you all 
The random scheme as wildly as it 



The words are mostly 

when we ceased 
There came a minute's pause, and 

Walter said, 
' I wish she had not vielded ! ' then to 





The Princess ; A Medley. 



Yet h 



' What, if you drest it up poetically!' 
So pray'cl tlie men, the women : I 



the scatter'd scheme 
sheaf ? What style 
should give 



of 



Together in 

could suit ? 
The men required that 

throughout 
The sort of mock-heroic gigantesque, 
With which we banter'd little Lilia 

first: 
The women — and perhaps they felt 



For 



ethmg 



the ballads which 



I solemn 



Or in their silent influence as they 

Had ever seem'd to wrestle '% 
burlesque, 

And drove us, last, to quite 
close— 

They hated banter, wish'd for some- 
thing real, 

A gallant fight, a noble princess — 



Not 



her 



ue-hen 



Or all, they said, as earnest as the 

close ? 
Which yet with such a framework 

scarce could be. 
Then rose a little feud betwixt the 

two, 
Betwixt the mockers and the realists : 
And I, betwixt them both, to please 

them both, 
And yet to give the story as it rose, 
I moved as in a strange diagonal. 
And maybe neither pleased myself 

nor them. 

But Lilia pleased me, for she took 

no part 
In our dispute ; the sequel of the 

tale 
Had touch'd her ; and she sat, she 

pluck'd the grass, 
She flung it from her, thinking : last. 




A showery glam 

said, 
'You — tell us what 

might have told 



pon her aunt, and 
e are ' who 



For she w 
But that th 




nm'd with theories 
a shout : the gates 
crowd wen 



were clos 
At sunset, and t 

ing now. 
To take their leave, about the garden 

rails. 



So I and 

we c 

The slope 



nig : 



ent out to these : 
ii-place, and turn- 
half in light, and 
: the west, a land 
one their massive 



The haj; 

half 
Far-shadowing 

of peace 
Gray halls alon 

groves ; 
Trim hamlets; here and there a rustic 

tower 
Half-lost in belts of hop and breadths 

of wheat ; 
The shimmering glimpses of a stream ; 

the seas; 
A red sail, or a white ; and far beyond, 
Imagined more than seen, the skirts 

of France. 



college friend. 
The Tory member's elder son, ' and 

there ! 
God bless the narrow sea which keeps 

her off, 
And keeps our Britain, whole within 

herself, 
A nation yet, the rulers and the 

ruled— 
Some sense of duty, something of a 

faith. 
Some reverence for the laws our- 
selves have made. 
Some patient force to change them 

Some civic manhood firm against the 

But yonder, whiff I there comes a 

sudden heat. 
The gravest citizen seems to lose his 

head, 
The king is scared, the soldier will 

not fight. 





The Princess: A Medley. 



In mock heroics stranger than 



Re 


olts, republics, revolutions, most 


Mo 


graver than a sc 


loolboys' barring 


To 


comic for the solemn things they 


To 


solemn for the 


comic touches in 




them, 




Like our wild Prince 


ss with as wise a 




dream 




As 


some of theirs- 


-God bless the 


I V 


fish they were a 
broad.' 


whole Atlantic 




Have patience,' 


I replied, ' our- 




selves are full 




Of social wrong; a, 


d mavbe wildest 




dreams 




Ar 


but the needful 
truth : 


preludes of the 


Fo 


me, the genial 
crowd. 


day, the happy 


Th 


- sport half-scien 
faith, 


ce, fill me with a 


Th 


s fine old world 
child 


of ours IS but a 


Ye 


in the go-cart. 


Patience! Give 


To 


that guides.' 


there is a hand 



In such discourse vvegain'd the gar- 

And there we saw Sir Walter where 

he stood. 
Before a tower of crimson hollv- 

oaks. 
Among six boys, head under head, and 

look'd 
No little lily-handed Baronet he, 
A great broad-shoulder'd genial Eng- 



A lord of fat prize-oxen and of she 
A raiser of huge melons and of pine 





A quarter-sessions 

none; 
Fair-hair'd am 

Now shaking hand: 

him, of those 
That stood the nearer 

to speech — 
Who spoke few words and pithy, such 

as closed 
Welcome, farewell, and welcome for 

the year 
To follow : a shout rose again, and 

made 
The long line of the approaching 

rookery swerve 
From the elms, and shook the 

branches of the deer 
From slope to slope thro' distant ferns, 

and rang 
Beyond the bourn of sunset; O, a 



than the city-roar th; 
Why should n< 



More ioyf 

hails 
Premier or king ! 

these great S 
Give up their parks some d 

a year 
To let the people breathe? 

they cried, 
I likewise, and in groups th 

away. 



But we went back to the Abbey, 

and sat on, 
So much the gathering darknsss 

charm'd : we sat 
But spoke not, rapt in nameless 

Perchance upon the future man : the 

walls 
Blacken'd about us, bats wheel'd, and 

owls whoop'd, 
And gradually the powers of the night. 
That range above the region of the 



ight broke 



Deepening the courts of I 

them up 
Thro' all the silent spaces of the 

worlds. 
Beyond all thought into the Heaven 

of Heavens. 





Ode OH the Death nf the Duke of W.ilington. 



)isiol)ed the giinin. 


ring statue of 


Sir Ralph 




-rom those >icl, silks, 


and home well 


pleased we wen 





ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE 
DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 

PUBLISHKD IN 1852. 
I. 
Bury the Great Duke 

With an empire's lamentation, 
Let us bury the Great Duke 
To the noise of the mourning of a 
mighty nation, 
Mourning when their leaders fall. 
Warriors carry the warrior's pall. 
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 



Where shall we lay the man whom 

we deplore ? 
Here, in streaming London's central 

Let the sound of those he wrought 

for, 
And the feet of those he fought for, 
Echo round his bones for evermore. 



Lead out the pageant: sad and slow, 
As fits an universal woe. 
Let the long long procession go, 
And let the sorrowing crowd about it 

grow. 
And let the mournful martial music 

blow ; 
The last great Englishman is low. 



n, for -to us he seems the 
bering all his greatnes 





Mourn for the man of long-enduring 

blood. 
The statesman-warrior, moderate, 

Whole in himself, a common good. 
Mourn for the man of amplest 

influence. 
Vet clearest of ambitious crime, 
Our greatest yet with least pretence, 
Great in cmnicil and great in war, 
1-' 'I -111' '~i ■ ii'i.un of his time, 
1; ■ ■ iiunion-sense. 



O good 

knew, 
O voice from which their omens al 

men drew, 
O iron nerve to true occasion true, 
O fall'n at length that tower o 

strength 
Which stood four-square to all th' 

winds that blew ' 
.Such was he whom we deplore. 
The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er 
The great World-victor's victor wil 



be seen i 



All is over and done : 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

England, for thy son. 

Let the bell be toll'd. 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

And render him to the mould. 

Under the cross of gold 

That shines over city and river, 

There he shall rest for ever 

.A mong the wise and the bold. 

Let the bell be toll'd : 

And a reverent people behold 

The towering car, the sable steeds : 

liriRht let it be with its blazon'd deeds. 

Dark in its funeral fold. 

Let the bell be toll'd : 

And a deeper knell in the heart be 

knoll'd; 
And the sound of the sorrowing 

anthem roll'd 
Thro' the dome of 




golden cross; 




Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington. 



\nd the volleying cannon thunde 



lew their voices of old. 
t'nr iiian\' a time in many a clime 
His captain's-ear has heard them 

boom 
Bellowing victory, bellowing doom : 
When he with those deep voices 

wrought, 
Guarding realms and kings from 

shame ; 
With those deep voices our dead 

captain taught 
The tyrant, and asserts his claim 
In that dread sound to the great name, 
Which he lias worn so pure of blame. 
In praise and in dispraise the same, 
A man of well-attemper'd frame. 
O civic inuse, to such a name. 
To such a name for ages long, 
To such a name. 

I'reserve a broad approach of fame, 
And ever-echoing avenues of song. 



Who is he that cometh, like an hon- 

or'd guest. 
With banner and with music, with 

soldier and with priest. 
With a nation weeping, and breaking 

on my rest 1 
Mighty Seaman, this is he 
Was great by land as thou by sea. 
Thine island loves thee well, thou 

famous man. 
The greatest sailor since our world 

began. 
Now, to the roll of muffled drums, 
To thee the greatest soldier comes ; 
For this is he 

Was great by land as ihou bv sea ; 
His foes were thine ; he kept us free ; 

give him welcome, this is he 
^Vorthy of our gorgeous rites, 
And worthy to be laid bv thee ; 
For this is England's greatest son, 

1 le that gain'd a hinidred fights, 
\iir ever lost an English gun ; 

."Xgainst the mvriads ofAssave 
ClashM with his fiery few and won; 
And underneath another sun, 





Warring on 

Round affrighted Lisbon dr 
The treble works, the vast designs 
t)f his labor'd rampart-lines, 
Where he greatly stood at bay. 
Whence he issued forth anew. 
And ever great and greater grew, 
Beating from the wasted vines 
Back to France her banded swarms. 
Back to France with countless blows 
Till o'er the hills her eagles flew 
Beyond the Pyrenean pines, 
FoUow'd up in vallev and glen 
With blare of bugle,' cl.ini.'.i of men, 
Roll of cannon and clash of arms. 
And England pourini; un her iocs. 
Such a war had such' a cln-,,. 

In anger, whcrl'd on iLuropc-sliadov 

ing wings, 
And barking for the thrones i 

kings ; 
Till one that sought but Duty's iro 



On that loud 



bbath 



A day of onsets of despair ! 
Dash'd on every rocky square 
Their surging charges foam'd them- 
selves away; 
Last, the Prussian trumpet blew; 
Thro' the long-tormented air 
Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray, 
And down we swept and charged and 

overthrew. 
.So great a soldier taught us there. 
What long-enduring hearts cuuld do 
In that world-earthquake, Waterloo ! 
Mighty Seaman tender and true. 
And pure as he from taint of craven 

guile, 
O saviou 
O shaker 
If aught of things that here befall 
Touch a spirit among things divine. 
If love of country move thee there 



Be glad, because his b( 

thine ! 
And thro' the cent 





Ode on the Death of the Duke of WcUirgton 



'I'lie proof and echo of all huma 

fame, 

A people's voice, when they rejoice 

At civic revel and pomp and game. 

Attest their great commander's clair 

With honor, honor, honor, honor t 

him. 
Eternal honor to his name. 



A people's voice ! we are a people 
yet. 

Tho' all men else their nobler dreams 
forget, 

Confused bv brainless mobs and law- 
less Powers ; 

Thank Him who isled us here, and 
roughly set 

His Briton in blown seas and storm- 
ing showers, 

We have a voice, with which to pay 
the debt 

Of boundless love and reverence and 
regret 

To those great men who fought, and 
kept it ours. 

And keep it ours, O God, from brute 

O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eve, 

the soul 
Of Europe, keep our noble England 

whole. 
And save the one true seed of free- 

Hetwixt a people and their ancient 
throne. 

That sober freedom out of which 
there springs 

Our loyal passion for our temperate 
kings ; 

For, saving that, ve help to save man- 
kind 

Till public wrong be crumbled into 



And drill the : 



rid for the march 



Till crowds at length be sane and 
crowns be just, 
wink no more in slothful over- 

Renieniher him who led your hosts ; 
He bad vou guard the sacred coasts. 



Your ca 
H 



ard 




ulde 



voice is silt 

hall 

Forever; and whatever tempests lour 
For ever silent ; even if they broke 
In thunder, silent ; yet remember all 
He spoke among you, and the Man 

who spoke ; 
Who never sold the truth to serve the 

hour. 
Nor palter'd with Eternal God for 

power ; 
Who let the turbid streams of rumor 

flow 
Thro' either babbling world of high 

and low ; 
Whose life was work, whose language 

rife 
With rugged maxims hewn from life ; 
Who never spoke against a foe ; 
Whose eighty winters freeze with one 

rebuke 
All great self-seekers trampling on 

the right : 
Truth-teller was our England's Alfred 

named ; 
Truth-lover was our English Duke; 
Whatever record leap to light 
He never shall be ashamed. 



Lo, the leader in these glorious wars 
Now to glorious burial slowly borne, 
FoUow'd by the brave of other lands. 
He, on whom from both her ojjen 

hands 
Lavish Honor shower'd all her 



iptied all her 



And affluent Fortune 

horn. 

Yea, let all good things await 
Him who cares not to be great, 
lint as he saves or serves the .state. 
Not once or twice in our rough 

island-story. 
The path of duty was the way to 

glory : 
He that walks it, only thirsting 
For the right, and learns to deaden 
Love of self, before his journey 

closes. 





Ode m the Death of the Duke of Wellington. 



He shall find the stubborn thistle 
bursting 

Into glossy purples, which outredden 

All voluptuous garden-roses. 

Not once or twice in our fair island- 
story, 

The path of duty was the way to 
glory : 

He, that ever following her com- 
mands, 

On with toil of heart and knees and 

Thro' the long gorge to the far light 

has won 
His path upward, and prevail'd, 
Shall find the toppling crags of Duty 

scaled 
Are close upon the shining table-lands 
To which our God Himself is moon 

and sun. 
Such was he : his work is done. 
But while the races of mankind en- 
dure, 
Let his great e.\ample stand 
Colossal, seen of every land. 
And keep the soldier firm, the 

statesman pure: 
Till in all lands and thro' all human 

story 
The path of duty be the way to glory : 
And let the land whose hearths he 

saved from shame 
For many and many an age proclaim 
At civic revel and pomp and game, 
And when the long-illumined cities 

flame. 
Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame, 
With honor, honor, honor, honor to 

him, 
Eternal honor to his name. 



ph will be sung 
noulded tongue 
ers that we shall not 





Once the weight and fate of Europe 

Ours the pain, he his the gain I 

More than is of man's degree 

Must be with us, watching here 

At this, our great solemnity. 

Whom we see not we revere ; 

We revere, and we refrain 

From talk of battles loud and vain, 

And brawling memories all too free 

For such a wise humility 

As befits a solemn fane : 

We revere, and while we hear 

The tides of Music's golden sea 

Setting toward eternity, 

Uplifted high in heart and hope are we. 

Until we doubt not that for one so 



Than when he fought at Waterloo, 

And Victor he must ever be. 

For tho' the Giant Ages heave the 



And br 


eak the 


shore. 


and 


evermore 


Make a 


id brea 


k, and 


wor 


V their 


vvil 


Tho' world on 


vorldi 


imv 


riadm\ 


riac 



Round us, each with different powers, 
And other forms of life than ours. 
What know we greater than the soul .' 
On God and Godlike men we build 

our trust. 
Hush, the Dead March wails in the 

people's ears : 
The dark crowd moves, and there are 

sobs and tears : 
The black earth yawns : the mortal 

disappears; 
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; 
He is gone who seem'd so great. — 
Gone ; but nothing can bereave him 
Of the force he made his own 
Being here, and we believe him 
Something far advanced in State, 
And that he wears a truer crown 
Than any wreath that man can weave 

him. 
S])eak no more of his renown. 
Lay your earthly fancies ( 
And in the vast cathedral leave him, 
God accept him, Christ receive him. 
1852. 





The Third of February^ 1852. 



THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 
1S52. 



That our free press should cease to 

brawl, 
Not sting the fiery Frenchman into 

war. 
It was our ancient privilege, my Lords, 
To fling whate'er we felt, not fearing, 

into words. 



We love not this French God, the 

child of Hell, 
Wild War, who breaks the converse 

of the wise; 
But though we love kind Peace so 

We dare not ev"n by silence sanc- 
tion lies. 
It might be safe our censures to with- 



And yet, my Lords, r 
a higher law. 



As long as we remain, we must speak 

Tho' all the storm of Europe on us 
break ; 
No little German state are we, 

But the one voice in Europe : we 
must speak ; 
That if to-night our greatness were 

struck dead. 
There might be left some record of the 



If you be fearful, then must w.- \ e bold. 
Our Britain cannot salve .1 tyrant 
o'er. 
Better the waste Atlantic roll'd 

On her and us and ours for ever- 
more. 
What ! have we fought for Freedom 
from ou 





At last to dodge and palter 
public crime .' 

Shall we fear hivi ? our own we never 

fear'd. 
From our first Charles by force we 

wrung our claims. 
Prick'd by the Papal spur, we rear'd, 
We flung the burthen of the second 

James. 
I say, we uerer feared ! and as for 

these, 
We broke them on the land, we drove 

them on the seas. 



And you, my Lords, you make the 
'rpeople muse 
In doubt if you be of our Barons' 
breed — 
Were those your sires who fought at 
Lewes ? 
Is this the manly strain of Runny- 
mede ? 
O fall'n nobility, that, overawed. 
Would lisp in honey'd whispers of this 
monstrous fraud! 



We feel, at least, that silence here 

were sin, 
Not ours the fault if we have feeble 

hosts— 
If easy patrons of their kin 

Have left the last free race with 

naked coasts ! 
They knew the precious things they 

had to guard : 
For us, we will not spare the tyrant 

one hard word. 



Tho' niggard throats of Manchester 
may bawl, 
What England was, shall her true 
sons forget ? 
We are not cotton-spinners all. 

But some love England and her 

.-^nd these in our Thermopvlae shall 

stand. 
And hold against the world this honor 

of the land. 





The Charge of the Light Brigatk- 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT 
BRIGADE. 



Half a league, half a leagvie, 
Half a league onward. 

All in the valley of Death 
Rode the si.\ hundred. 
Forward, the Light Brigade ! 

Charge for the guns ! ' he said 

Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 



' Forward, the Light Brigade ! ' 
Was there a man dismay'd ? 
Not tho' the soldier knew 

.Some one had blunder'd : 
Their's not to make reply, 
Their's not to reason why, 
Their's but to do and die : 
Into the vallev of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 



Cannon to right of them. 
Cannon to left of them. 
Cannon in front of them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well, 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 

Rode the six hundred. 



Flash'd all their sabres bare, 
Flash'd as they turn'd in air 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wonder'd : 
Plunged in the battery-smoke 
Right thro' the line they broke : 
Cossack and Russian 
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke 

Shatter' d and sunder'd 
Then they rode back, but not 





Cannon to right of them. 
Cannon to left of them. 
Cannon behind them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd' at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell. 
They that had fought so well 
Came thro' the jaws of Death, 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them, 

Left of six hundred. 



When can their glory fade ? 
O the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wonder'd. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred 1 



ODE SUNG AT THE OPENING 
OF THE INTERNATIONAL 
EXHIBITION. 



Uplift a thousand voices full and 
sweet, 
In this wide hall with earth's in- 
vention stored. 
And praise the invisible universal 
Lord, 
Who lets once more in peace the 
nations meet, 
Where Science, Art, and Labor 
have outpour'd 
Their myriad horns of plenty at our 
feet. 



O silent father of our Kings to be 
Mourn'd in this golden hour of jubilee. 
For this, for all, we weep our thanks 
to thee ! 



The world-compelling plan was 
And, lo ! the long laborious miles 





A Welcome to Alexandra. 



Of Palace; lo ! the gi:nt aisles, 

Rich in model and design ; 

Harvest-tool and husbandry. 

Loom and wheel and enginery, 

Secrets of the sullen mine, 

Steel and gold, and corn and wine, 

Fabric rough, or fairy-fine, 

Sunny tokens of the Line, 

Polar marvels, and a feast 

Of wonder, out of West and East, 

And shapes and hues of Art divine ! 

All of beauty, all of use. 

That one fair planet can produce, 

Brought from under every star. 
Blown from over every main, 
And mixt, as life is mixt with ; nin, 

The works of peace with woiks of 



Is the goal so far away ? 

Far, how far no tongue can say. 

Let us dream our dream to-day. 



O ye, the wise who think, the wise 
who reign. 

From growing commerce loose her 
latest chain, 

And let the fair white-wing'd peace- 
maker fly 

To happy havens under all the sky, 

Ai\d mix the seasons and the golden 
hours ; 

Till each man find his own in all men's 
good. 

And all men work in noble brother- 
hood, 

Breaking their mailed fleets and armed 



thee. 




Welcome her, thunders of fort and of 

fleet! 
Welcome her, thundering cheer of the 

street ! 

ngs youthful and 

.mder her feet ! 



the 



-bud- 



And 



iig by 



mg Nature's 



A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA. 
MARCH 7, 1S63. 

Sea-kings' daughter from over the 
Alexandra! 




Welcome her, all th 

sweet. 
Scatter the blossom 
Break, happy land, 



Make music, O bird, 

ded bow"ers ! 
Blazon your mottoes of blessing and 

prayer ! 
Welcome her, welcome her, all that is 

ours ! 
Warble, O bugle, and trumijet, blare ! 
Flags, flutter out ujjon turrets and 

towers ! 
Flames, on the windy headland flare ! 
Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire ! 
Clash, ye bells, in the merry March 

Flash, ye cities, in rivers of fire I 
Rush to the roof, sudden rocket, and 

higher 
Melt into stars for the land's desire I 
Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice. 
Roll as a ground-swell dash'd on the 

strand. 
Roar as the sea when he welcomes 

the land. 
And welcome her, welcome the land's 

desire, 
The sea-kings' daughter as happy as 

fair, 
Blissful bride of a blissful heir. 
Bride of the heir of the kings of the 

sea — 
O joy to the people and joy to the 

throne, 
Come to us, love us and make us your 

For Saxon or Dane or Norman we. 

Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be, 
We are each all Dane in 
of thee, 

Alexand 





A Welcome to Her Royal Highness, Marie Alexandrovna.. 95 



A WELCOME TO HER ROYAL 
HIGHNESS MARIE ALEX- 
ANDROVNA, DUCHESS OF 
EDINBURGH. 

MARCH 7, 1874. 



The Son of him with whom we strove 
for power — 
Whose will is lord thro' all his 

world-domain — 
Who made the serf a man, and 
burst his chain — 
Has given our Prince his own imper- 
ial Flower, 

Alexandrovna. 
And welcome, Russian flower, a peo- 
ple's pride, 
To Britain, when her flowers begin 

to blow ! 
From love to love, from home to 
home you go. 
From mother unto mother, stately 
bride, 

Marie Alexandrovna ! 

II. 

The golden news along the steppes is 
blown. 
And at thy name the Tartar tents 

are stirr'd ; 
Elburz and all the Caucasus have 
heard ; 
And all the sultry palms of India 

Alexandrovna. 
The voices of our universal sea 

On capes of Af ric as on cliffs of Kent, 
The Maoris and that Isle of Con- 
tinent, 
And loyal pines of Canada murmur 



thee. 




Marie Alexandrov 



branching, both, in lusty 



Yet Harold's England fell to Nor- 
man swords; 




Yet thine own land has bow'd to 
Tartar hordes 
Since English Harold gave its throne 
a wife, 

Alexandrovna ! 
For thrones and peoples are as waifs 
that swing, 
And float or fall, in endless ebb and 

flow ; 
But who love best have best the 
grace to know 
That Love by right divine is death- 
less king, 

Marie Alexandrovna ! 



And Love has led thee to the stranger 
land, 
Where men are bold and strongly 

say their say ; — 
See, empire upon empire smiles to- 
day. 
As thou with thy young lover hand in 
hand 

Alexandrovna ! 
So now thy fuller life is in the west. 
Whose hand at home was gracious 

to thy poor : 
Thy name was blest within the 
narrow door ; 
Here also, Marie, shall thy name be 
blest, Marie Alexandrovna ! 



Shall fears and jealous hatreds flame 
again .' 
Or at thy coming, Princess, every- 

wliere. 
The blue heaven break, and some 
diviner air 
Breathe thro' the world and change 
the hearts of men, 

Alexandrovna ? 
But hearts that change not, love that 



And peace 



yours, the peace of 
if-! 
■ this wild world may 



And howsoev 
roll. 
Between your peoples truth and man- 
ful peace, 

Alfred — Alexandrovna ! 





The Giandmothe 



THE GRANDMOTHER. 



And Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Anne? 
Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man, 
And Willy's wife has written : she never was over-wise, 
Never the wife for Willy : he wouldn't take my advice. 



father was not the man to save, 
_e, and drank himself into his grave. 
Pretty enough, very pretty ! but I was against it for one. 
Eh ! — but he wouldn't hear me — and Willy, you say, is gone 



' Here's a leg for a babe of a wei 
There was not his like that year 



Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his tongue 
I ought to have gone before him : I wonder he went so young. 
I cannot cry for him, Annie : I have not long to stay ; 
Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far away. 



Why do you look at me, Annie ? you think I am hard an 
But all my children have gone before me, I am so old : 
I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest ; 
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best 




Uy stood like a rock. 

lays doctor ; and he would be bound, 

enty parishes round. 




For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my dear, 
All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear. 
I mean your grandfather, Annie : it cost me a world of woe, 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. 



VII. 

For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the place, and I knew right well 
That Jenny had tript in heY time : I knew, but I would not tell. 
And she to be coming and slandering me, the base little liar 1 
ut the tongue is a fire as you know, my dear, the tongue is a fire. 




I 




TPON THE I.OCR.' —fag e 4J. 




The Grandmother. 



And the parson made it his text that week, and he said likewise, 
That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies. 
That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with 
But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to figh 




.tright 



And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and a day ; 
And all things look'd half-dead, tho' it was the middle of May. 
Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been ! 
But soiling another, Annie, will never make oneself clean. 



And I cried myself well-nigh blind, and all of an evening late 

I climb'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at the gate. 

The moon like a rick on tire was rising over the dale, 

And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the nightingale. 



All of a sudden he stopt : there past by the gate of the farm, 
Willy, — he didn't see me, — and Jenny hung on his arm. 
Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew how ; 
Ah, there's no fool like the old one — it makes me angry now. 



Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing that he meant ; 
Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking curtsey and went. 
And I said, ' Let us part : in a hundred years it'll all be the same. 
You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name.' 

XIII. 
And he turn'd, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet moonshine; 
' Sweetheart, 1 love you so well that your good name is mine. 
And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well or ill ; 
But marry me out of hand : we two shall be happy still." 



' Marry you, Willy ! ' said 
And I fear you'll listen to 
But he turn'd and claspt m 
Seventy years ago, my dar 




it I needs must speak my mind, 
be jealous and hard and unkind 
his arms, and answer' d, ' No, lo' 
seventy years ago. 

XV. 



So Willy and I were wedded : I wore a lilac gown ; 
And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the ringers a crown 
But the first that ever I bare was dead before he was born, 
Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn. 





The Grandmother. 



That was the first time, too, that ever I thought of death. 

There lay the sweet little body that never had drawn a breath. 

I had not wept, little Anne, not since I had been a wife ; 

But I wept like a child that day, fur the babe had fought for his life, 




XVII. 
His dear little face was troubled, as if \vi 
I look'd at the still little bod\ — his truubl 
For Willy 1 cannot weep, I shall sec him 
But I wept like a child for the child tiiat 



i dead before he was born. 



But he cheer'd me, my good man, for he seldom said me nay : 
Kind, like a man, was he ; like a man, too, would have his way : 
Never jealous — not he : we had many a happy year ; 
And he died, and I could not weep — my own time seem'd so near. 



;ix. 



But I wish'd it had been God's wil 


that I, too 




I began to be tired a little, and fair 


had slept 


at his side. 


And that was ten years back, or m 


>re, if I do, 


't forget : 


But as to the children, Annie, they 


re all abou 





Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left me at two, 
Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like you: 
Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her will. 
While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hill. 

XX[. 

And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too— they sing to their team : 
Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a dream. 
They com'e and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed — 
I am not always certain if they be alive or dead. 




XXII. 

And yet I know for a truth, there's none of them left alive; 
For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty-five: 
And Willy, my eldest-born, at nigh threescore and ten ; 
I knew them all as babies, and now they're elderly men. 

XXIII. 
For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I grieve ; 

oftener sitting at home in my father's farm at eve : 
And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, and so do I 
I find myself often laughing at things that have long gon 





Northern Fannci 



o be sure the preacher says, our sins should make us sad : 
But mine is a time of peace, and tlicre is Grace to be had ; 
And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life shall cease 
And in ihi.^ Book, little Annie', the message is one of Peace. 




And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain, 
And happy has been my life; but I would not live it again. 
I seem to be tired a litt'ie, that's all, and long for rest ; 
Only at yonr age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. 

.\xvi. 
So Willy has gone, my beauty, my eldest-born, my flower. 
But how can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for an hour, — 
Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next ; 
I, too, shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vext? 

XXVII. 
And Willy's wife has written, she never was over-wise. 
Get me my glasses, Annie : thank God that I keep my eyes. 
There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have past away. 
But stay with the old woman now: you cannot have long to stay. 



NORTHERN FARMER. 



Wheer 'asta beiin saw long and n 

Noorse .•' thourt nowt o' a noorse : 

Says that I moant 'a naw moor aale: but I beant a fool 

Git ma my aale, fur I beant a-gawin' to break my rule. 



liggin' 'ere aloiin ? 
hoy. Doctor's abean an' agoan : 



Doctors, they knaws nowt, fur a says what's nawways true : 
Naw soort o' koind o' use to saay the things that a do. 
I've 'ed my point o' aale ivry noight sin' I bean 'ere. 
An' I've 'ed my quart ivry market-noight for foorty year. 




Parson's a bean loikewoise, an' a sittin' 'ere o' my bed. 
' The amoighty's a taakin o' you ' to 'issen, my friend,' a said, 
An' a towd ma my sins, an's toithe were due, an' I gied it in bond 
" done moy duty boy 'um, as I' a done boy the lend. 





Northern Farmo 



IV. 
Larn'd a ma' bea. I reckons I 'annot sa mooch to larn 

cast oop, thot a did, 'bout Bessy Harris's barne. 
Thaw a knaws I hallus voated \vi' Squoire an' choorch 
An' i' the woost o' toimes 1 wur niver agin the raate. 




An' I hallus coom'd to 's chooch afoor moy Sally wur dead, 
An' 'eard 'urn a bunimin' awaay loike a buzzard-clock ' ower my 'ead, 
An' I niver knaw'd whot a mean'd but I tliowt a 'ad sumniut to saay, 
An' I thowt a said whot a owt to 'a said an' I coom'd awaay. 



Bessy Marris's barne ! tha knaws she laaid it to mea. 
Mowt a bean, mayhap, for she wur a bad un, shea. 
'Siver, I kep 'um, I kep 'um, my lass, tha mun understood ; 
I done moy duty boy 'um as I 'a done boy the lond. 



VII. 

But Parson a coonis an' a goas, an' a 
'The amoightv's a taakin o' you to 'i 
I weant saay men be loiars, thaw sur 
But 'e reads wonn sarmiii a weeak, a 



. says It easy an freea 
ssen, my friend,' savs 'ea. 
nmun said it in 'ais'te : 
n' I 'a stubb'd Thurnabv 



D'ya moind the waaste, 
Theer wur a boggle in it 
Moast loike a butter-bun 
But I stubb'd 'um oop w 



VIII. 

ly lass? naw, naw, tha was not born then ; 

I often 'eard 'um mysen ; 

p,'^ fur I 'eard 'um about an' about, 

' the lot, an' raaved an' rembled 'um out. 



Keaper's it wur ; fo' they fun 'um theer a-laaid of 'is faace 
Down i' the woild "enemies'* afoor I coom'd to the plaace. 
Noaks or Thimbleby — toaner^ 'ed shot 'um as dead as a n; 
Noaks wur 'ang'd for it oop at 'soize — but git ma my aale. 



Dubbut loook at the waaste : theer waru't not feeiid for a cow; 
Newt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' loook at it now — 
Warnt worth nowt a haacre, an' now theer's lots o' feead, 
Fourscoor^ yows upon it an' some un it down i' seead.'= 




Nobbut a bit on it's left, an' I mean'd to 'a stubb'd it at fall. 
Done it ta-year I mean'd, an' runn'd plow thruff it an' all. 
If godamoighty an' parson 'ud nobbut let ma aloan. 
Mea, wi' haate hoonderd haacre o' Squoire's, an' lond o' my 



Ane 



One 





Northern Fan. 



Do godamoighty knaw what a's doing a-taakiii' o' 
I beant wonn as saws 'ere a bean an" yonder a pea 
An' Squoire 'all be sa mad an' all — a' dear a' dear 
And I 'a managed for Squoire coom Michaelmas t 




A mowt 'a taaen owd Joanes, as 'ant not a 'aapoth o" sense, 
Or a mowt 'a taaen young Robins^a niver mended a fence : 
But godamoighty a moost taake mea an' taake ma now 
Wi' aaf the cows to cauve an' Thurnaby hoalms to plow ! 



Loook 'aw quoloty smoiles when they seeiis ma a passin boy, 
Says to thessen naw doubt ' what a man a bea sewer-loy ! ' 
Fur they knaws what I beiin to Squoire sin fust a coom'd to the 'All ; 
I done moy duty by Squoire an' I done moy duty boy hall. 



Squoire's i' Lunnon, an' summun I reckons 'ull 'a to wroite. 
For whoa's to howd the lond ater mea thot muddles ma quoit ; 
Sartin-sewer I bea, thot a weant niver give it to Joanes, 
Naw, nor a meant to Robins — a niver rembles the stoans. 



But summun 'ull come ater mea mayhap wi' 'is kittle o' steam 
Huzzin' an' maarin' the blessed fealdswi' the Devil's oan team. 
Sin' I niun doy I mun doy, thaw loife they says is sweet. 
But sin' I mun doy I mun doy, for I couldn abear to see it. 



What atta stannin' theer fur, an' doesn bring ma the aiile ? 
Doctor's a 'toattler, lass, an a's hallus i' the owd taale; 
I weant 'oreak rules fur Doctor, a knaws naw moor nor a floy ; 
Git ma my aale I tell tha, an' if I mun doy I mun doy. 




NORTHERN FARMER. 

NEW STYLE. 



Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's le 
Proputty, pro]5utty, proputty— 
Proputty, proputty, proputty— 
Theer's moor sense i' one o' 'i 



:s. as they 

;hal'i what I 'ears 'em saay 
Sam, thou's an ass fur ti 
legs nor in all thy braa' 




k 




Northern Fan 



Woa — theer's a craw to pluck wi' tha, Sam : yon's parson's 'ouse- 
Dosn't thou knavv that a man mun be either a man or a mouse ? 
Time to think on it then ; for thou'il be twenty to weeak.' 
Proputty, proputty — woa then woa — let ma 'ear mysen speak. 




Me an' thv mutli 
Thc.u'sbean tall- 
Thou'il not man 
NoS— thou'il mz, 



as bjan a-talkin' o' thee ; 
■, an' she bean a tellin' it me. 
-thou's sweet upo' parson's lass- 
-an' we boath on us thinks tha ai 



Seea'd her to-daay goa by — Saaint's-daay — they was ringing the bells. 
She's a beauty thou thinks— an' soa is scoors o' gells, 
Them as' as munny an' all — wot's a beauty ? — the flower as blaws. 
But proputty, proputty sticks, an' proputty, proputty graws. 



Do'ant be stunt : ^ taake time : I knaws what maakes tha sa mad. 
Warn't I craazed fur the lasses mysen when I wur a lad? 
But I knavv'd a Quaaker feller as often 'as towd ma this : 
' Doant thou marrv for munnv, but goa wheer munny is ! ' 



An' I went wheer munny war: an' thy muther coom to 'an 
Wi' lots o' munny laaVd by, an' a nicetish bit o' land. 
Maaybe she warn't a beauty :— I niver giv it a thowt — 
But warn't she as good to cuddle an' kiss as a lass as 'ant i 



VII. 

Parson's lass 'ant newt, an' she weant 'a nowt when "e's dead, 
Mun be a guvness, lad, or summut, and addle ■' her bread : 
Why? fur 'e's nobbut a curate, an' weant niver git hissen clear. 
An' 'e maade the bed as 'e ligs on afoor 'e coom'd to the shere. 




vtll. 
'An thin 'e coom'd to the parish wi' lots o' Varsity debt, 
Stook to his taail they did, an' 'e 'ant got shut on 'em yet 
An' 'e ligs on 'is back i' the grip, wi' noan to lend 'i 
Woorse nor a far-welter'd * vowe : fur, Sammy, 'e n 





Northern Farmer. 



Luvv ? what's luvv ? thou can luvv thy lass an' 'er munny 
Maakiii' 'em goa togither as they've good right to do. 
Could'n I luvv thv muther bv cause o' "er munny laaid by? 
Naav— fur 1 luvv'd "er a vast sight moor fur it : reason why. 




Ay an' thy muther says thou wants to marry the lass, 
Cooms of a gentleman burn : an' we boath on us thinks tha an ass. 
Woa then, proputtv, wiltha ?— an ass as near as mays nowt'— 
Woi then, wiltha ?' dangtha !— the bees is as fell as owt.- 



XI. 

Break me a bit o' the esh for his 'ead, lad, out o' the fence I 
Gentleman burn ! what's gentleman burn > is it shillins an' pence: 
Proputtv, proputty's ivrything 'ere, an', Sammy, I'm blest 
If it isn't the saiime oop yonder, fur them as 'as it's the best. 



XII. 

Tis'n them as 'as munny as breaks into 'ouses an' steals, 
Them as 'as coats to their backs an' taakes their regular meals. 
Noa, but it's them as niver knaws wheer a meal's to be 'ad. 
Taake my word for it, Sammy, the poor in a loomp is bad. 



Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun 'a bean a laazy lot, 
Fur work mun a 'gone to the gittin 'whiniver munny was got. 
Feyther 'ad ammost nowt ; leastways 'is munny was 'id. 
But 'e tued an moil'd' 'issen dead, an 'e died a good un, 'e did. 



Loook thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beck cooms out by the 'ill ! 
Fevther run oop to the farm, an' 1 runs oop to the mill ; 
An' I'll run oop to the brig, an' that thou'll live to see ; 
And if thou marries a good un I'll leave the land to thee. 




XV. 

Thim's my noations, .Sammy, wheerby I means to stick ; 
But if thou marries a bad un, I'll leave the land to Dick. — 
Coom oop, proputty, proputty — that's what I 'ears 'im saay- 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — canter 'an canter awaay. 





The Daisy. 



THE DAISY. 

lEN AT EDINBURGH. 

lat hours were thine and 



In lands of pahn and southern pine ; 

In lands of palm, of orange-blossoin, 
Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine. 

What Roman strength Turbia show'd 
In ruin, by the mountain road ; 

How like a gem, beneath, the city 
Of little Monaco, basking, glow'd. 

How richly down the rocky dell 
The torrent vineyard streaming fell 

To meet the sun and sunny waters, 
That only heaved with a summer wsell. 

What slender campanili grew 
By bays, the peacock's neck in hue ; 
Where, here and there, on sandy 
beaches 
A milky-bell'd aniaryllis blew. 

How young Columbus seem'd to rove, 
Yet present in his natal grove, 

Now watching high on mountain 
cornice, 
And steering, now, from a purple cove, 

Now pacing mute by ocean's rim ; 
Till, in a narrow street and dim, 

I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto. 
And drank, and loyally drank to him. 



Nor knew 



pleased us 



Not the dipt palm of which they 
boast ; 
But distant color, happy hamlet, 
A moulder'd citadel on the coast. 

Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen 
A light amid its olives green ; 

Or olive-hoary cape in ocean ; 
Or rosy blossom in hot ravine. 



oleanders flush'd the bed 
It torrents, gravel-spread ; 





And, crossing, oft w 
glisten 
Of ice, far up on a mount; 

We loved that hall, tho' white and 

cold. 
Those niched shapes of noble mould, 

A princely people's awful princes, 
The grave, severe Genovese of old. 

At Florence too what golden hours. 
In those long galleries, were ours; 
What drives about the fresh Cas- 
cine. 
Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers. 

In bright vignettes, and each com- 
plete. 
Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet, 

Or palace, how the city glitter'd, 
Thro' cypress avenues, at our feet. 

But when we crost the Lombard plain 
Remember what a plague of rain ; 

Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma ; 
At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain. 

And stern and sad {so rare the smiles 

Of sunlight) look'd the Lombard 

piles ; 

Porch-pillars on the lion resting. 

And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles. 

Milan, O the chanting quires. 
The giant windows' blazon'd fires. 

The height, the space, the gloom, 
the glory ! 
A mount of marble, a hundred spires ! 

1 climb'd the roofs at break of day ; 
Sun-smitten Alps before me lay. 

I stood among the silent statues. 
And statued pinnacles, mute as they. 

How faintly-flush' d, how phantom- 

. fair. 
Was Monte Rosa, hanging there 
A thousand shadowy-pencill'd val- 
leys 
And snowy dells in a golden air. 





To the Rev. F. D. Maurice. 



the lake beyond hii 
flooded ; and how \v( 



past 



From Como, when the light was giay, 
And in mv head, for half the dav, 

The ricii Virgilian rustic measure 
Of Lari Maxume, all the way, 

Like ballad-burthen music, kept, 
As on The Lariano crept 

To that fair port below the castle 
Of Queen Theodolind, where we 
slept; 

Or hardly slept, but watch'd awake 
A cypress in the moonlight shake. 
The moonlight touching o'er a ter- 
race 
One tall Agave above the lake. 

What more ? we took our last adieu, 
And up the snowy Splugen drew, 
Kut ere we reach'd the highest 
summit 
I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you. 

It told of England then to me. 
And now it tells of Italy. 

O love, we two shall go no longer 
To lands of summer across the sea; 

So dear a life your arms enfold 
Whose crying is a cry for gold : 

Yet here to-night in this dark city, 
When ill and weary, alone and cold, 

I found, tho' crush'd to hard and dry. 
This nurseling of another sky 

Still in the little book you lent me. 
And where you tenderly laid it by : 

And I forgot the clouded Forth, 
The gloom that saddens Heaven and 
Earth, 
The bitter east, the misty summer 
.And gray metropolis of the North. 

Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain. 
Perchance, to charm a vacant brain. 
Perchance, to dream you still beside 




ncy fled to the South again. 




TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE. 

Come, when no graver cares employ. 
Godfather, come and see your boy : 
Voiir presence will be sun in win- 
ter. 
Making the little one leap for joy. 

For, being of that honest few. 
Who give the Fiend himself his due, 
Should eighty-thousand college- 
councils 
Thunder ' Anathema,' friend, at you ; 

Should all our churchmen foam in 

spite 
At you, so careful of the right, 

Yet one lay-hearth would give you 

welcome 
(Take it and come) to the Isle of 

Wight ; 



Where, far from noise and smoke of 

town, 
I watch the twilight falling brown 

All round a careless-order'd garden 
Close to the ridge of a noble down. 



You'll have no scanda 



whil 



But honest talk and wholesome wine. 

And only hear the magpie gossip 
Garrulous under a roof of pine : 

For groves of pine on either hand, 
To break the blast of winter, stand ; 

And further on, the hoary Channel 
Tumbles a billow on chalk and sand ; 



Where, if below the milky steep 
Some shi)) of battle sluwlv creep. 
And on thro' zones of light and 
shadow 
Glimmer away to the lonely deep. 

We might discuss the Northern sin 
Which made a selfish war begin ; 
Dis])ute the claims, arrange the 



Emperor, Ottoma 





IVi// — In the Garden at Sicainsfon. 



ither war's avenging rod 
Shall lash all Europe into blood ; 
Till you should turn to dearer mat- 
ters, 
Dear to the man that is dear to God ; 

Mow best to help the slender store. 
How mend the dwellings, of the poor; 

How gam in life, as life advances, 
Valor and charity more and more. 

Come, Maurice, come : the lawn as 

yet 
Is hoar with rime, or spongv-wet ; 
But when the wreath of March has 

blossom'd, 
Crocus, anemone, violet. 

Or later, pay one visit here. 
For those are few we hold as dear; 
Nor pay but one, but come for 



Many and i 

J.z,:uary, , 



happy year. 



O WELL for him whose will is strong 
He suffers, but he will not suffei 

long; 
He suffers, but he cannot suffei 

wrong : 
For him nor moves the loud world"; 

random mock. 
Nor all Calamity's hugest waves con 

found. 
Who seems a promontory of rock. 
That, coiniiass'd round w'ith turbulenl 

scumd. 
In middle ocean 



shock. 
Tempest-buffe 




leets the surgmg 
tadel-crown'd. 



who, bettering no 
ength of heaven-de 




And 

Ors: 

Recu 

He seems as one whose footsteps halt, 

Toiling in immeasurable sand, 

And o'er a weary sultry land, 

Far beneath a blazing vault. 

Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous 

hill, 
The city sparkles like a grain of salt. 



IN THE VALLEY OF 
CAUTERETZ, 



Deepening thy voice with the deepen- 
ing of the night. 
All along the valley, where thy waters 

flow, 
I walk'd with one I loved two and 

thirty years ago. 
All along the valley, while I walk'd 

to-day, 
The two and thirty years were a mist 

that rolls away; 
For all along the valley, down thy 

rocky bed. 
Thy living voice to me was as the 

voice of the dead, 
And all along the valley, by rock and 

cave and tree. 
The voice of the dead was a living 

voice to me. 



IN THE GARDEN AT 
SWAINSTON. 

NlGHTlNG-^LES warbled without. 
Within was weeping for thee : 

Shadows of three dead men 
Walk'd in the walks with me, 
Shadows of three dead men and 
thou wast one of the three. 

Nightingales sang in his woods : 



Nightingales warbled and sang 
Of a passion that lasts but a day 





The Fi07oer—Rtquiescat—The Sailor Boy— The Islet. 



Still in the house in his coffin the 
Prince of courtesy lay. 

Two dead men have I known 
In courtesy like to thee: 

Two dead men have I loved 
With a love that ever will be : 
Three dead men have I loved and 
thou art last of the three. 



THE FLOWER. 

Once in a golden hour 

I cast to earth a seed. 
Up there came a flower, 

The people said, a weed. 

To and fro they went 
Thro' my garden-bower. 

And muttering discontent 
Cursed me and my flower. 

Then it grew so tall 

It wore a crown of light. 

But thieves from o'er the wall 
Stole the seed by night. 

Sow'd it far and wide 

By everv town and tower, 

Till all the people cried, 
' Splendid is the flower.' 

Read my little f.ible : 
He that runs may read. 

Most can raise the flowers now, 
For all have got the seed. 

And some are pretty enough, 
And some are poor indeed ; 

And now again the people 
Call it but a weed. 



REQUIESCAT. 

Fair is her cottage in its place, 

Where yon broad water sweetly 
slowly glides. 
:es itself from thatch to base 
ream in the sliding tides. 





And fairer she, but ah how soon to die ! 

Her quiet dream of life this hour 
may cease. 
Her peaceful being slowly passes by 

To some more perfect peace. 



THE SAILOR BOV. 

He rose at dawn and, fired with hope, 
Shot o'er the seething harbor-bar, 

And reach'd the ship and caught the 
rope. 
And whistled to the morning star. 

And while he whistled long and loud 
He heard a fierce mermaiden cry, 

' O boy, tho' thou art young and 
proud, 
I see the place where thou wilt lie. 



Is and yeasty surges m 
; about the dreary bay. 



' The sands ; 

In I 
And on thy ribs the limpet sticks. 

And in thv heart the scrawl shall 
play.' ' 

' Fool,' he an.swer'd, ' death is sure 
To those that stay and those that 
roam, 

But I will nevermore endure 

To sit with empty hands at home. 

' My mother clings about my neck. 
My sisters crying, "Stay for shame;" 

Mv father raves of death and wreck, 
They are all to blame, they are all 
to blame. 

' God help me ! save I take my part 
Of danger on the roaring sea, 

A devil rises in my heart. 

Far worse than any death to me.' 

THE ISLET. 

' Whither, O whither, love, shall 

we go. 
For a score of sweet little summers 



The 



ittle wife of the 



said. 














/cm 1 \ i ! I 1 r7i 


\ 






■ io8 Child-Songs.— Minnie and Winnie. 


On the day that follow'd the day she 








was- wed, 


CHILD-SONGS. 


. . 








' Whither, O whither, love, shall we 










0^ go?' 


1. tw 






And the singer shaking his curly head 








Turn'tl as he sat. and struck the kevs 


THE CITY CHILD. 






There at his right with a sudden 








crash, 


Dainty little maiden, whither would 






Singing, 'And shall it be over the seas 


you wander,' 






With a crew that is neither rude nor 


Whither from this pretty home, the 






rash, 


home where mother dwells .' 






But a bevy of Eroses apple-cheek'd, 


'Far and far away,' said the dainty 






In a shallop of crystal ivory-beak'd, 
With a satin sail of a ruby glow, 


little maiden. 






'All among the gardens, auriculas, 






To a sweet little Eden on earth that 


anemones. 






I know. 


Roses and lilies and Canterbury- 






A mountain islet pointed and peak'd ; 


bells,' 






Waves on a diamond shingle dash. 








Cataract brooks to the ocean run. 


Dainty little maiden, whither would 






Fairily-delicate palaces shine 


vou wander .= 






Mixt with myrtle and clad with vine. 


Whither from this pretty house, this 






And overstream'd and silvery- 


citv-houseof ours?' 






streak- d 


' Far and far away,' said the dainty 






With manv a rivulet high against the 


little maiden. 






Sun 


' All among the meadows, the clover 






The facets of the glorious mountain 


and the clematis. 






flash 


Daisies and kingcups and honey- 






Above the valleys of palm and pine.' 


suckle-flowers.' 






' Thither, O thither, love, let us go.' 


II. 






' No, no, no ! 








For in all that exquisite isle, my 


MINNIE AND WINNIE. 






dear. 








There is but one bird with a musi- 


Minnie and Winnie 






cal throat. 


Slept in a shell. 






And his compass is but of a single 


Sleep, little ladies ! 






note. 


And they slept well. 






That it makes one weary to hear.' 


Pink was the shell within, 






• Mock me not ! mock me not ! love, 


Silver without; 






let us go.' 


Sounds of the great sea 
Wander'd about. 






' No, love, no. 








For the bud ever breaks into bloom 


Sleep, little ladies! 






on the tree. 


Wake not soon ! 






And a storm never wakes on the 


Echo on echo 






'r lonely sea. 


Dies to the moon. "X 








And a worm is there in the lonely 












wood. 


Two bright stars 

Peep'd into the shell. 


' 








That pierces the liver and blackens 










the blood ; 


' What are they dreaming of ? 










And makes it a sorrow to be. ' 

K, 1 - 


Who can tell?' 


■ 








3 1 2 ,A-I — -4-LiJV 














The Spiteful Letter — Literary Squabbles — The Victim 



Started a green Inii 
Out of the croft ; 

Wake, little ladies. 
The sun is aloft ! 



THE SPITEFUL LETTER. 

Here, it is here, the close of the year, 
And with it a spiteful letter. 

My name in song has done him much 
wrong. 
For himself has done much better. 

little bard, is your lot so hard, 
If men neglect your pages ? 

1 think not much of yours or of mine, 

I hear the roll of the ages. 

Rhymes and rhymes in the range of 
the times! 

Are mine for the moment stronger? 
Vet hate me not, but abide your lot, 

I last but a moment longer. 



I'his faded leaf, our names are as brief ; 

What room is left for a hater? 
Yet the yellow leaf hates the greener 
leaf, 

For it hangs one moment later. 

Greater than I — is that your cry ? 

And men will live to see it. 
Well — if it be so — so it is, you know; 

And if it be so, so be it. 

Brief, brief is a'ummer leaf, 
But this is the time of hollies. 

O hollies and ivies and evergreens. 
How I hate the spites and the 
follies I 



LITERARY SQUABBLES. 

Ah God I the petty fools of rhyme 
That shriek and sweat in pigmy wars 

Before the stony face of Time, 
And look'd at by the silent stars : 





And pinch their brethren in the throng. 
And scratch the very dead for spite : 



The sullen Lethe rolling doom 
On them and theirs and all things 
here : 

When one small touch of Charity 
Could lift them nearer God-like state 

Than if the crowded Orb should cry 
Like those who cried Diana great : 

And I too, talk, and lose the touch 
I talk of. Surely, after all, 

The noblest answer unto such 

Is perfect stillness when they brawl. 



THE VICTIM. 



upon the people fell, 
A famine after laid them low. 
Then thorpe and byre arose in fire. 

For on them brake the sudden foe ; 
So thick they died the people cried, 
' The Gods are moved against the 
land.' 
The Priest in horror about his altar 
To Thor and Odin lifted a hand : 
' Help us from famine 
.And plague and strife ! 
What would you have of us ? 
Human life ? 
Were it our nearest. 
Were it our dearest, 
(Answer, O answer) 
We give you his life.' 

II. 
But still the foeman spoil'd and burn'd. 

And cattle died, and deer in wood. 
And bird in air, and fishes turn'd 

And whiten'd all the rolling flood ; 
And dead men lay all over the way. 
Or down in a furrow scathed with 
flame : 
And ever and aye the Priesthood 
moan'd. 





Till at last it seem'd that an answer 
came. 

' The King is happy 
In child and wife ; 
Take you his dearest, 
Give us a life.' 

in. 
The Priest went out by heath and hill ; 

The King was hunting in the wild ; 
They found the mother sitting still ; 
She cast her arms about the child. 
The child was only eight summers old. 
His beauty still with his years in- 
creased. 
His face was ruddy, his hair was gold. 
He seem'd a victim due to the priest. 
The Priest beheld him. 
And cried with joy, 
' The Gods have answer' d : 
We give them the boy.' 

IV. 

The King return'd from out the wild. 

He bore but little game in hand ; 
The mother said, ' They have taken 
the child 
To spill his blood and heal the land : 
The land is sick, the people diseased, 
And blight and famine on all the lea : 
The holy Gods, they must be .ippeased. 
So I pray you tell the truth to me. 
"They have taken our son. 
They will have his life. 
Is he your dearest i" 
Or I, the wife > ' 




The King bent low, with hand on brow- 
He stay'd his arms upon his knee : 
' O wife, what use to answer now } 
For now the Priest has judged for 
me.' 
The King was shaken with holy fear; 
'The Gods,' he said, 'would have 
chosen well ; 
Yet both are near, and both are dear 
And which the dearest I cannot tell I 
But the Priest was happy, 

' We have his dearest. 
His only son I ' 



The rites prepared, the victim bared, 
The knife uprising toward the blow 
To the altar-stone she sprang alone, 

' Me, not my darling, no ! ' 

He caught her away with a sudden 

cry; 

Suddenly from him brake his wife, 

And shrieking ' /am his dearest, I — 

/ am his dearest I ' rush'd on the 

knife. 
And the Priest was happy, 
' O, Father Odin, 
We give you a life. 

Which was his nearest.' 
Who was his dearest .' 
The Gods have answer'd 
We give them the wife I ' 



WAGES. 

Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song. 

Paid with a voice flying by to be lost on an endless sea — 

Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, to right the wrong- 
Nay, but she aim'd not at glory, no lover of glory she : 

Give her the glory of going on, and still to be. 

The wages of sin is death ; if the wages of Virtue be dust. 

Would she have heart to endure for the life of the worm and the fly 

She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet seats of the just, 
"" in a golden grove, or to bask in 

Give her the wages of going on, and not to die 






The Higher Pantheism— The Voice and the Peak. 




THE HIGHER PANTHEISM. 

The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains — 
Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns? 

Is not the Vision He ? tho' He be not that which He seems? 
Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams ? 

Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and limb, 
Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from Him ? 

Dark is the world to thee : thyself art the reason why ; 

For is He not all but that which has power to feel ' I am I ' ? 

Glory about thee, without thee; and thou fulfiUest thy doom 
Making Him broken gleams, and a stifled splendor and gloom. 

Speak to Him thou for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meet- 
Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet. 

God is law, say the wise ; O Soul, and let us rejoice, 
For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His voice. 

Law is God, say some : no God at all, says the fool ; 

For all we have power to see is a straight staff bent in a pool ; 

And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of man cannot see ; 
But if we could see and hear, this Vision — were it not He t 



THE VOICE AND THE PEAK. 



The voice and the Peak 
Far over summit and lawn. 

The lone glow and long roar 

Green-rushing from the rosy thrones 
of dawn ! 



All night have I heard the voice 
Rave over the rocky bar. 

But thou wert silent in heaven. 
Above thee glided the star. 



Hast thou no voice, O Peak, 
That standest high above all i 
im the voice of the Peak, 
roar and rave for I fall. 




' A thou.sand voices go 

To North, South, East, and West; 
They leave the heights and are troub- 



' The fields are fair beside them. 
The chestnut towers in his bloom; 

But they— they feel the desire of the 
deep- 
Fall, and follow their doom. 



' The deep has power on the height. 
And the height has power on the 
deep ; 

They are raised for ever and ever, 
And sink again into sleep.' 





A Dedication — Experiments. 



Not raised for ever and ever, 
But when their cycle is o'er. 

The vallev, the voice, the peak, the 
star 
Pass, and are found no more. 



The Peak is high and flush'd 
At his highest with sunrise fire ; 

The Peak is high, and the stars are 
high. 
And the thought of a man is higher. 



A deep below the deep, 

And a height beyond the height ! 
Our hearing is not hearing, 

And our seeing is not sight. 



The lone glow and long roar 

Green-rushing from the rosy thrones 



Flower in the crannied wall, 
I pluck you out of the crannies, 
I hold you here, root and all, in my 
hand, 



hittle flower — but ;/ I could 

stand 
What you are, root and all, an 

all, 
I should know what God and 



A DEDICATION. 




Time 



Dear, near and true — i 

himself 
Can prove you, tho' he make you 

evermore 
Dearer and nearer, as the rapid of life 
Shoots to the fall— take this and pray 

that he 
Who wrote it, honoring your sweet 

faith in him, 
May trust himself; and after praise 

and scorn. 
As one who feels the immeasurable 

world. 
Attain the wise indifference of the 

wise ; 
And after Autumn past — if left to pass 
His autumn into seeming-leafless 

days — 
Draw toward the long frost and long- 
est night. 
Wearing his wisdom lightly, like the 

fruit 
Which in our winter woodland looks 

a flower, i 



dle-tr 






EXPERIMENTS. 



BOADICEA. 



While about the shore of Mona those Neronian legionaries 
Burnt and broke the grove and altar of the Druid and Druidess, 
Far in the East Boadicea, standing loftily charioted. 
Mad and maddening all that heard her in her fierce volubility. 
Girt by half the tribes of Britain, near the colony Camulodune, 
Yell'd and shriek'd between her daughters o'er a wild confederacy. 

' They that scorn the tribes and call us Britain's barbarous populaces, 
Did they hear me, would they listen, did they pity me supplicating ? 
Shall I heed them in their anguish? shall I brook to be suppl' 
Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant! 






Experiments. 




Must their evei-ravening eagle's beak and talon annihilate us? 

Tear the noble heart of Britain, leave it gorily quivering? 

Bark an answer, Britain's raven I bark and blacken innumerable, 

Blacken round the Roman carrion, make the carcase a skeleton, 

Kite and kestrel, wolf and wolfkin, from the wilderness, wallow in it. 

Till the face of Bel be brighten'd, Taranis be propitiated. 

Lo their colony half-defended I lo their colony, Camulodiine ! 

There the horde of Roman robbers mock at a barbarous adversary. 

There the hive of Roman liars worship an emperor-idiot. 

Such is Rome, and this her deity: hear it, .Spirit of Cassivelaun ! 

' Hear it, Gods! the Gods have heard it, O Icenian, O Coritanian! 
Doubt not ye the Gods have answer'd, Catieuchlanian, Trinobant. 
These have' told us all their anger in miraculous utterances. 
Thunder, a flying fire in heaven, a murmur heard aerially. 
Phantom sound of blows descending, moan of an enemy ma.ssacred. 
Phantom wail of women and children, multitudinous agonies. 
Bloodily flow'd the Tamesa rolling phantom bodies of horses and men ; 
Then a phantom colony smoulder'd on the refluent estuary ; 
Lastly yonder yester-even, suddenly giddily tottering — 

There was one who watch'd and told me — down their statue of Victory fell. 
Lo their precious Rraan bantling, lo the colony Camulodiine, 
.Shall w tea'ch it a Roman lesson ? shall we care to be pitiful ? 
Shall wc deal with it as an infant? shall we dandle it amorously? 

' Hear Icejiian, Catieuchlaiiian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant ! 
While I roved about the forest, long and bitterly meditating, 
There I heard them in the darkness, at the mystical ceremony, 
Loosely robed in flying raiment, sang the terrible prophetesses, 
" Fear not, isle of blowing woodland, isle of silvery parapets! 
Tho' the Roman eagle shadow thee, tho' the gathering enemy narrow thee. 
Thou shalt wax and he shall dwindle, thou shall be the mighty one yet I 
Thine the liberty, thine the glory, thine the deeds to be celebrated. 
Thine the myriad-rolling ocean, light and shadow illimitable. 
Thine the lands of lasting summer, many-blossoming Paradises, 
Thine the North and thine the South and thine the battle-thunder of God," 
So they chanted : how shall Britain light upon auguries happier ? 
So they chanted In the darkness, and there cometh a victory now. 

' Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant I 
Me the wife of rich Prasutagus, me the lover of lilDerty, 
Me they seized and me they tortured, me they lash'd and humiliated. 
Me the sport of ribald Veterans, mine of ruffian violators ! 
See they sit, they hide their faces, miserable in ignominy! 
Wherefore in me burns an anger, not by blood to be satiated. 
Lo the palaces and the temple, lo the colony Camulodiine ! 
There they ruled, and thence they wasted all the flourishing territory, 
Thither at their will they haled the yellow-ringleted Britoness — 
Bloodily, bloodilv fall the battle-axe, unexhausted, inexorable. 
Shout Icenian, Catieuchlanian, shout Coritanian, Trinobant, 
Till the victim hear within and yearn to hurry precipitously 
Like the leaf in a roaring whirlwind, like the smoke in a hurricane 
Lo the colony, there they riotL-d in the city of Cunobelinc ! 






In Quantity ; on Translations of Homer — Milton 




There they drank in cups of emerald, there at tables of ebony lay, 

Rolling on their purple couches in their tender effeminacy. 

There they dwelt and there they rioted ; there — there — ttiey dwell n 

Burst the gates, and burn the palaces, break the works of the statuary. 

Take the hoary Roman head and shatter it, hold it abominable, 

Cut the Roman boy to pieces in his lust and voluptuousness. 

Lash the maiden into swooning, me they lash'd and humiliated. 

Chop the breasts from off the mother, dash the brains of the little one oui 

Up my Britons, on my chariot, on my chargers, trample them under us.' 

So the Queen Boadicea, standing loftily charioted, 
Brandishing in her hand a dart and rolling glances lioness-like, 
Yell'd and shriek'd between her daughters in her fierce volubility. 
Till her people all around the royal chariot agitated, 
Madly dash'd the darts together, writhing barbarous lineaments. 
Made the noise of frosty woodlands, when they shiver in Januarj-, 
Roar'd as when the roaring breakers boom and blanch on the precipices, 
Yell'd as when the winds of winter tear an oak on a promontory. 
So the silent colony hearing her tumultuous adversaries 
Clash the darts and on the buckler beat with rapid unanimous hand, 
Thought on all her evil tyrannies, all her pitiless avarice. 
Till she felt the heart within her fall and flutter tremulously. 
Then her pulses at the clamoring of her enemy fainted away. 
(Jut of evil evil flourishes, out of tyranny tyranny buds. 
Ran the land with Roman slaughter, multitudinous agonies. 
Perish'd many a maid and matron, many a valorous legionary, 
Fell the colony, city, and citadel, London, Verulam, Camulodune. 



IN QUANTITY. 

ON TRANSLATIONS OK HOMER. 

Hexameters ami Pentameters. 



These lame hexameters the strong-wing'd music of Homer I 
No — but a most burlesque barbarous e.xperiment. 

When was a harsher sound ever heard, ye Muses, in Knglanc 
When did a frog coarser croak upon our Helicon .> 

Hexameters no worse than daring Germany gave us, 
Barbarous experiment, barbarous hexameters. 



MILTON. 

Alcaics. 

O mighty-mouth'd inventor of har- 



O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity, 
God-gifted organ-voice of England, 
Milton, a name to resound for 
»ges; 




Whose Titan angeLs, Gabriel, Abdi- 

el, 
Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous ar- 

Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean 
Rings to the roar of an angel on- 
set— 
Me rather all th.it bowery loneliness, 
The brooks of Eden i 
ing. 





of a Translation of the Iliad in Blank Verse. 115 



And bloom profuse and cedar arches 

Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean, 

Where some refulgent sunset of In- 



Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean 
isle, 
And crimson-hued the stately palm- 
woods 
Whisper in odorous heights of 
even. 

Hendecasyllabics. 

O YOU chorus of indolent reviewers, 
Irresponsible, indolent reviewers, 
Look, I come to the test, a tiny poem 
All composed in a metre of Catullus, 
All in quantity, careful of my mo- 
Like the skater on ice that hardly 

bears him. 
Lest I fall unawares before the peo- 
ple. 
Waking laughter in indolent review- 
ers. 
Should I flounder awhile without a 

tumble 
Thro' this metrification of Catullus, 
They should speak to me not with- 
out a welcome. 
All 'hat chorus of indolent review- 
Hard, hard, hard is it, onlv not to 

tumble. 
So fantastical is the dainty metre. 
Wherefore slight me not'wholly, nor 

believe me 
Too presumptuous, indolent review- 
ers. 
O blatant Magazines, regard me 

rather— 
Since I blush to belaud myself a mo- 
ment — 
As some rare little rose, a piece of in- 
most 
Horticultural art, or half coquette- 
like 
Maiden, not to be greeted unbenign- 





SPECIMEN OF A TRANSLA- 
TION OF THE ILIAU IN 
BLANK VERSE. 

So Hector spake ; the Trojans roar'd 

applause ; 
Then loosed their sweating horses 

from the yoke, 
And each beside his chariot bound his 

And oxen from the city, and goodly 

sheep 
In haste they drove, and honey-hearted 

wine 
And bread from out the houses 

brought, and heap'd 
Their firewood, and the winds from off 

the plain 
Roll'd the rich vapor far into the 

heaven. 
And these all night upon the bridge" 

of war 
Sat glorying ; many a fire before them 



Look beautiful, when all the winds are 
laid, 

And every height comes out, and jut- 
ting peak 

And valley, and the immeasurable 
heavens 

Break open to their highest, and all 
the stars 

Shine, and the Shepherd gladdens in 
his heart : 

So many a fire between the ships and 

Of Xanthus blazed before the towers 

of Troy, 
A thousand on the plain ; and close by 

each 
Sat fifty in the blaze of burning fire; 
And eating hoary grain and pulse the 

steeds 
Fixt bv their "cars, waited the golden 

dawn. //(uo' VIII. 542-561. 

' Or, ridge. 






THE WINDOW; 

OK, THK SUNU OF THE WRENS. 

KouR years ago Mr. Sullivan requested me to write a little sonR-cycle, German fashion, 
for him to exercise his art upon. He had been very successful in setting such old songs as 
' Orpheus with his lute,' and I drest up for him, partly in the old style, a puppet, whose al 
most only merit is, perhaps, that it can dance to IVIr. Sullivan's instrument. I am sorry that 
my four-year-old puppet should have to dance at all in the dark shadow of these days ; 
but the music is now completed, and I am bound by my promise. 

December, 1870. A. Tennvson. 

THE WINDOW. 



ON THE HTLl,. 

The lights and si 
Yonder it brighte; 
on the plain. 
A jewel, a jewel dear to a lover's 
eye! 
Oh is it the brook, or a pool, or her 
window pane, 
When the winds are up in the 
morning.^ 

Clouds that are racing above. 
And winds and lights and shadows 
that cannot be still. 
All running on one way to the home 



1 are all running on, at 
on the slope of the hi 

And the winds are 
morning ! 



up in the 



Follow, follow the chase ! 
And my thoughts are as quick and as 
quick, ever on, on, on. 
O lights, are you flying over her 
sweet little face.' 
And my heart is there before you are 
come, and gone, 



When the winds are up in 
morning ! 

Follow them down the slope! 
nd I follow them down to the 

dow-pane of my dear. 
And it brightens and darkens 

brightens like my hope, 



the 




And it darkens and brightens and 
darkens like niv fear. 
And the winds ' are up in the 



AT THE WINDOW. 
Vine, vine and eglantine, 
Clasp her window, trail and twine ! 
Rose, rose and clematis. 
Trail and twine and clasp and kiss, 
Kiss, kiss ; and make her a bower 
All of flowers, and drop me 
flower, 
Drop rae a flower. 

Vine, vine and eglantine, 
Cannot a flower, a flower be mine.' 
Rose, rose and clematis. 
Drop me a flower, a flower, to ki.ss. 
Kiss, kiss — and out of her bower 
All of flowers, a flower, a flower, 
Dropt, a flower. 



GONE. 



Gone, till the end of the year. 

Gone, and the light gone with her, 

and left me in shadow here ! 
Gone— flitted away. 
Taken the stars from the liight and 

the sun from the day ! 
Gone, and a cloud in my heart, and a 

storm in the air ! 
Flown to the east or the west, flitted 

I know not where ! 
Down in the south is a flash and a 

groan : she is there ! she is 

there ! 





The frost is here, 
And fuel is dear. 
And woods .ire sear, 
A.iid fires burn clear. 
And frost is here 

And has bitten the heel of the going 
year. 

Bite, frost, bite ! 

You roll up away from the light 

The blue wood-louse, and the plump 

dormouse. 
And the bees are still'd, and the flies 

are kill'd. 
And you bite far into the heart of the 

house. 
But not into mine. 

Bite, frost, bite I 

The woods are all the searer, 

The fuel is all the dearer. 

The fires are all the clearer. 

My spring is all the nearer, 

You have bitten into the heart of the 

earth, 
But not into mine. 



SPRING. 

Birds' love and birds' song 

Flying here and there. 
Birds' song and birds' love, 

And you with gold for hair I 
Birds' song and birds' love. 

Passing with the weather. 
Men's song and men's love, 

To love once and for ever. 



Men's love and bird's love. 

And women's love and men's ! 
And you my wren with a crown of 
gold. 
You my queen of the wrens I 
^'ou the queen of the wrens — 
We'll be birds of a feather, 
'11 be King of the Queen of the 




togethe 



Where is anothe 

Fine of the fine, and shy of the shy ? 
Fine little hands, fine little feet — 

Dewv blue eye. 
•Shall I write to her? shall! _ 

Ask her to marry me by and by ? 
.Somebody said that she'd say no 

Somebody knows that she'll say ay ! 



Ay or no, if ask'd to her face ? 

Av or no, from shy of the shy ? 
Go, little letter, apace, apace, 

Fly I 
Fly to the light in the valley below — 

Tell my wish to her dewy blue eye : 
Somebody said that she'd say no ; 

Somebody knows that she'll say ay I 



NO .\NSWEU. 

The mist and the rain, the mist and 
the rain ! 
Is it .-ly or no ? is it ay or no ? 
.'\nd never a glimpse of her window 
pane ! 
.•\nd I may die but the grass will 
grow. 
And the grass will grow when I am 

gone. 
And the wet west wind and the world 

will go on. 
Ay is the song of the wedded spheres, 
.\i) is trouble and cloud and storm. 
Ay is life for a hundred years, 
No will push 



1 years, 
down 



gone. 
The wet west wind and the world 
will go on. 



blow, yi 



The wind and the w, 
the wet ! 
Wet west wind he 
blow ! 
And never a line from my lady yet ! 

Is it ay or no ? is it ay or no ? 
Blow then, blow, and when I am gone, 
The wet west wind and the world 
may go on. 





ER. 
Winds are loud and you are dumb, 
Take my love, for love will come, 

Love will come but once a life. 

Winds are loud and winds will pass 

Spring is here with leaf and grass : 

Take my love and be my wife. 
After-loves of maids and men 
Are but dainties drest again : 
Love nie now, you'll love me then : 

Love can love but once a life. 

THE ANSWER. 

Two little hands that meet, 
Claspt on her seal, my sweet I 
Must I take you and break you, 
Two little hands that meet .' 
I must take you, and break you, 
And loving hands must part — 
Take, take — break, break — 
Break — you may break my heart. 
Faint heart never won — 
Break, break, and all's done. 



Be merry, all birds, to-day. 

Be merry on earth as you never 
were merry before. 
Be merry in heaven, O larks, and far 
away, 
And merry for ever and ever, and 
one day more. 
Why? 
For it's easy to find a rhyme. 
Look, look, how he flits, 

The fire-crown'd king of the wrens, 
from out of the pine ! 
Look how they tumble the blossom, 
the mad little tits! 
' Cuckoo ! Cnck-oo I ' was ever a 
May so fine ? 

Why f 
For it's easy to find a rhyme. 
O merry the linnet and dove, 
And swallow and sparrow and 
tlirostle, and have your desire ! 
O merry my heart, you have gotten 
the wings of love. 
And flit like the king of the wrens 
with a crown of fire. 
Why? 
For it's ay ay, ay ay. 





WHEN. 
Sun comes, moon comes, 

Time slips away. 
Sun sets, moon sets. 

Love, fix a day. 

' A year hence, a year hence.' 
' We shall both be gray. ' 

' A month hence, a month hence. 
' Far, far away.' 

' A week hence, a week hence.' 

* Ah, the long delay.' 
' Wait a little, wait a little, 

You shall fix a day.' 

' To-morrow, love, to-morrow. 
And that's an age away.' 

Blaze upon her window, sun. 
And honor all the day. 



MARRIAGE MORNING. 
Light, so low upon earth. 

You send a flash to the sun. 
Here is the golden close of love. 

All my wooing is done. 
Oh, the woods and the meadows. 

Woods where we hid from the wet, 

iles where 

Meadows : 
Light, so low in the vale 

You flash and lighten afar. 
For this is the golden morning ot 
love. 

And you are his morning star. 
Flash, I am coming, I come. 

By meadow and stile and wood, 
Oh,' lighten into my eyes and my 

Into my heart and my blood ! 

Heart, are you great enough 

For a love that never tires? 
O heart, are you great enough for 
love ? 

I have heard of thorns and briers. 
Over the thorns and briers. 

Over the me.idows and stiles, 
Over the world to the end of it 

Flash for a million miles. 





IN MEMORIAM A. H. H. 



3BIIT MDCCCXXXIII. 



Stronc; Son of God, immortal Love, 
Whom we, that have not seen 

thy face. 
By faith, and faith alone, embrace. 

Believing where we cannot prove ; 

Thine are these orbs of light and 
shade ; 
Thou madest Life in man and 

brute ; 
Thou madest Death ; and lo, thy 
foot 
Is on the skull which thou hast made. 

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust : 
Thou madest man, he knows not 

why. 
He thinks he was not made to die ; 
And thou hast made him : thou art 
just. 



Thou seemest human and divine. 

The highest, holiest manhood, 

thou : 
Our wills are ours, we know not 
how ; 
( )ur wills are ours, to make them 
thine. 

Our little systems have their day ; 
They have their day and cease to 



They 

thee, 
i thou. O Lord 



but broken lights of 
; than they. 



We have but faith : we cannot know; 
For knowledge is of things we 

see ; 
And yet we trust it comes from 
thee, 
A beam in darkness ; let it grow. 



Let knowledge grow from more 



! in us dwell ; 
That mind and soul, according 

well, 
.May make one music as before. 





But vaster. We are fools and slight ; 

We mock thee when we do not 
fear : 

But help thy foolish ones to bear ; 
Help thy vain worlds to bear thyligTit. 

Forgive what seem'd my sin in me ; 
What seem'd my worth since I 

began ; 
For merit lives from man to 

And not from man, O Lord, to thee. 

Forgive my grief for one removed, 
Thy creature, whom I found so 

fair. 
I trust he lives in thee, and there 

I find him worthier to be loved. 

Forgive these wild and wandering 
cries. 
Confusions of a wasted youth ; 
Forgive them where they fail in 
truth. 
And in thy wisdom make me wise. 

1849. 



I HELD it truth, with him who sings 
To one clear harp in divers tones. 
That men may rise on stepping- 
stones 

Of their dead selves to higher things. 

But who shall so forecast the years 
And find in loss a gain to match .> 
Or reach a hand thro' time to 
catch 

The far-off interest of tears ? 

Let Love clasp Grief lest both be 
drown'd. 
Let darkness keep her 



Ah, sweeter to be drunk with 
loss. 
To dance with death, to beat the 
ground, 





imoriatn. 



Than that the victor Hours should 
scorn 
The long result of love, and boast, 
' Behold the man that loved and 
lost, 
But all he wa> is overworn.' 



Old Yew, which graspest at the stones 
That name the under-lying dead, 
Thy fibres net the dreamless 
head, 

Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. 

The seasons bring the flower again, 
And bring the firstling to the 

flock ; 
And in the dusk of thee, the clock 

Beats out the little lives of men. 

O not lor thee the glow, the bloom. 
Who changest not in anv gale, 
Nor branding summer suns avail 

To touch thy thousand years of gloom : 

And gazing on thee, sullen tree. 

Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, 
I seem to fail from out my blood 

And grow incorporate into thee. 



O Sorrow, cruel fellowship, 

O Priestess in the vaults of 
Death, 

O sweet and bitter in a breath. 
What whispers from thy lying lip .' 



•The 



rs,' she whispers, blindly 



A web is wov'n across the sky ; 
From out waste places comes a 



And 
'And 



mi the dy 
phanton 



Nature, 
stands 
With all the music in her tone, 
A hollow echo of my own, — 
A hollow form with empty hands.' 





Or crush her, like a vice of blood. 
Upon the threshold of the mind .' 



To Sleep I give my powers away; 

My will is bondsman to the dark; 

I sit within a helmless bark. 
And with my heart I muse and say : 

O heart, how fares it with thee now. 
That thou should'st fail from thy 

desire, 
Who scarcely darest to inquire, 

■ What is it makes me beat so low .' ' 

Something it is which thou hast lost, 
Some pleasure from thine early 

years. 
Break, thou deep vase of chilling 
tears, 
That grief hath shaken into frost ! 

Such clouds of nameless trouble cross 
All night below the darken'd 

eyes; 
With morning wakes the will, 
and cries, 
• Thou shall not be the fool of loss.' 



I sometimes hold it half a sin 

■|'o put in words the grief I feel ; 
For words, like Nature, half 
reveal 

And half conceal the Soul within. 

But, for the unquiet heart and brain, 
A use in measured language lies; 
The sad mechanic exercise. 

Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. 

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er. 
Like coarsest clothes against the 

cold : 
But that large grief which these 
enfold 
Is given in outline .ind no more. 





That ' Loss is common t^j the 

race' — 
And common is th 
|)lace, 
And vacant chaff well meant forgra 



That loss is common would not make 
My own less bitter, rather more : 
Too common ! Never morning 

To evening, but some heart did break. 

O father, wheresoe'er thou be, 

Who pledgest now thy gallant 

son ; 
A shot, ere half thy draught be 



O mother, praying God will save 

Thy sailor,— while thy head is 

bow'd, 
His heavy-shotted h a m ni o c k- 
shroud 
Drops in his vast and wandering grave. 

Ye know no more than I who wrought 
At that last hour to please him 

well; 
Who mused on all I had to tell, 
And something written, something 
thought ; 

Expecting still his advent home ; 
And ever met him on his way 
With wishes, thinking, 'here to- 
day,' 

Or ' here to-morrow will he come.' 



O somewhere, meek, unconsciou 
dove. 
That sittest ranging golden hail 
And glad to find thyself so fair. 

Poor child, that waitest for thy love ! 



her father's chimney glows 
in expectation of a guest ; 
And thinking ' this will please 




For he will see them on to-night ; 

And with the thought her color 

burns ; 
And, having left the gla 
turns 
Once more to set a ringlet right ; 

And, even when she turn'd, the curse 
Had fallen, and her future Lord 
Was drown'd in passing thro' the 
ford. 

Or kill'd in falling from his horse. 

O what to her shall be the end ? 

And what to me remains of good ! 

To her, perpetual maidenhood. 
And unto me no second friend. 



VII. 

Dark house, by which once more I 
stand 
Here in the long unlovely street, 
Doors, where my heart was used 
to beat 
So quickly, waiting for a hand, 

A hand that can be clasp'd no more — 
Behold me, for I cannot sleep, 
And like a guilty thing I creep 

At earliest morning to the door. 

He is not here ; but far away 

The noise of life begins again. 
And ghastly thro' the drizzling 



On the bald stre 


et breaks the 


blank 


day. 










A happv lover who has 


come 




To look on 


her that 


ove 


s him 


well. 










Who 'lights 


and 


mgs 


the 


gate- 


way bell. 










And learns her 


gone 


and 


far 


froni 



home ; 

He saddens, all the magic light 
Dies off at once from bowe 

hall, 
And all the place is dark, and all 

The chambers emptied of deliglit : 





In Memoriam. 



So find I every pleasant spot 

In which we two were wont to 

meet, 
The field, the chamber and the 
street. 
For all is dark where thou art not. 

Yet as that other, wandering there 
In those deserted walks, may find 
A flower beat with rain and wind, 

Which once she foster'd up with care ; 

So seems it in my deep regret, 

my forsaken heart, with thee 
And this poor flower of poesy 

Which little cared for fades not yet. 

But since it pleased a vanish'd eye, 

1 go to plant it on his tomb. 
That if it can it there may bloom. 

Or dying, there at least may die. 

IX. 

Fair ship, that from the Italian shore 
Sailest the placid ocean-plains 
With my lost Arthur's loved re- 



So draw him home to those that 
mourn 
In vain ; a favorable speed 
Ruffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead 

Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn. 

All night no ruder air perplex 

Thv sliding keel, till Phosphor, 
bright 
As our pure love, thro' early light 
Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. 

Sphere all your lights around, above; 
Sleep, gentle heavens, before the 

prow ; 
Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps 
now, 
My friend, the brother of my love ; 

My Arthur, whom I shall not see 
Till all my widow'd race be run ; 
Dear as the mother to the son, 

More than my brothers are to me. 





I hear the noise about thy keel ; 

I hear the bell struck in the night : 
I see the cabin-window bright ; 

I see the sailor at the wheel. 

Thou bring'st the sailor to his wife. 
And travell'd men from foreign 

lands ; 
.\nd letters unto trembling hands ; 

And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life. 

So bring him : we have idle dreams : 
This look of quiet flatters thus 
Our home-bred fancies ; O to us. 

The fools of habit, sweeter seems 

To rest beneath the clover sod. 

That takes the sunshine and the 

Or where the kneeling hamlet 
drains 
The chalice of the grapes of God ; 

Than if with thee the roaring wells 
Should gulf him fathom-deep in 

brine ; 
And hands so often clasp'd in 



XI. 

Calm is the morn without a sound. 
Calm as to suit a calmer grief. 
And only thro' the faded leaf 

The chestnut pattering to the ground : 

Calm and deep peace on this high 
wold. 
And on these dews that drench 

the furze, 
And all the silvery gossamers 
That twinkle into green and gold : 

Calm and still light on yon great pla 
That sweeps with all its 

bowers. 
And crowded farms and lessening 
towers. 
To mingle with the bounding 





In Memoriam. 



Calm and deep peace 



These leaves that redden to the 

fall; 

And in my heart, i£ calm at all, 
If any calm, a calm despair : 

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep. 
And waves that sway themselves 

And dead calm in that noble 
breast 
Which heaves but with the heaving 



XII. 

Lo, as a dove when up she springs 
To bear thro' Heaven a tale of 

woe, 
Some dolorous message knit be- 
low 
The wild pulsation of her wings ; 

Like her I go ; I cannot stay ; 

I leave this mortal ark behind, 
A weight of nerves without a 
mind, 

And leave the cliffs, and haste away 

O'er ocean-mirrors rounded large. 

And reach the glow of southern 

skies, 
And see the sails at distance rise. 

And linger weeping on the marge. 

And saying; 'Comes he thus, my 
friend ? 
Is this the end of all my care ? ' 
And circle moaning in the air: 

' Is this the end? Is this the end ? ' 

And forward dart again, and play 

About the prow, and back return 
To where the body sits, and learn 

That I have been an hour awav. 



Tears of the widower, when he sees 
A late-lost form that sleep reveal: 
And moves his doubtful arm: 
and feels 

Her place is empty, fall like these ; 





Which weep a loss forever i 

A void where heart on heart re- 
posed ; 
And, where warm hands have 
prest and closed. 
Silence, till I be silent too. 

Which weep the comrade of my 
choice. 
An awful thought, a life removed. 
The human-hearted man I loved, 

A Spirit, not a breathing voice. 

Come Time, and teach me, many 
years, 
I do not suffer in a dream ; 
For now so strange do these 
things seem. 
Mine eyes have leisure for their tears ; 

My fancies time to rise on wing. 

And glance about the approach- 
ing sails. 
As tho' they brought but mer- 
chants' bales. 
And not the burthen that they bring. 



to-day. 
And I went down unto the quay, 
And found thee lying in the port ; 

And standing, muffled round with woe, 
Should see thy passengers in rank 
Come stepping lightly down the 
plank. 

And beckoning unto those they know ; 

And if along with these should come 
The man I held as half-divine; 
Should strike a sudden hand in 
mine. 

And ask a thousand things of home ; 

And I should tell hii 



And he should sorrow o'er 
state 
And marvel what possess'd my brain ; 





In Memoriam. 



And I perceived no touch of change, 
No hint of death in all his frame, 
But found him all in all the same, 

I should not feel it to be strange. 

XV. 

To-night the winds begin to rise 

And roar from yonder dropping 

day: 
The last red leaf is whirl'd away, 

The rooks are blown about the skies ; 

The forest crack'd, the waters ciirl'd. 
The cattle huddled on the lea ; 
And wildly dash'd on tower and 
tree 

The sunbeam strikes along the world : 

And but for fancies, which aver 

That all thy motions gently pass 
Athwart a plane of molten glass, 

I scarce could brook the strain and 
stir 

That makes the barren branches loud ; 
And but for fear it is not so, 
The wild unrest that lives in woe 

Would dote and pore on yonder cloud 

That rises upward always higher. 

And onward drags a laboring 

breast. 
And topples round the dreary west, 

A looming bastion fringed with fire. 



What words 

from m 

Can caln 



fall'n 
'ild un- 



Or 



nantsof a single breast, 
■ such a changeling be ? 



Or doth she only seem to take 

The touch of change in calm or 

storm ; 
But knows no more of transient 
form 
. her deep self, than some dead lake 

That holds the shadow of a lark 

Hung in the shadow of a heaven ? 





Or has the shock, so harshly giv 
Confused nie like the unhappy bark 



That strikes by night a craggy shelf, 
And staggers blindly ere shesink f 
And stunn'd me from my power 
to think 

And all my knowledge of myself; 

And made me that delirious man 

Whose fancy fuses old and new, 
And flashes into false and true, 

And mingles all without a plan ? 

XVII. 

Thou comest, much wept for : such a 
breeze 
Compell'd thy canvas, and my 

prayer 
Was as the whisper of an air 
To breathe thee over Umely seas. 

For I in spirit saw thee move 

Thro' circles of the bounding sky. 
Week after week : the days go 
by: 

Come quick, thou bringest all I love. 

Henceforth, wherever thou may'st 

My blessing, like a line of light, 

Is on the waters day and night. 

And like a beacon guards thee home. 

So may whatever tempest mars 

Mid-ocean, spare thee, sacred 

bark ; 
And balmy drops in summer dark 

Slide from the bosom of the stars. 

So kind an office hath been done. 

Such precious relics brought by 

thee ; 
The dust of him I shall not see 

Till all mv widow'd race be run. 



'Tis well; 'tis something; 
stand 
Where he in English earth 
.And from his ashes 

The violet of his native 





I?i Memoriam. 



'Tis little ; but it looks in truth 
As if the quiet bones were ble: 
Among familiar names to rest 

And in the places of his youth. 

Come then, pure hands, and bear 

head 
That sleeps or wears the m 

of sleep, 
And come, whatever loves 



Ah yet, ev'n yet, if this might be, 
I, falling on his faithful heart. 
Would breathing thro' his lips 
impart 

The life that almost dies in me ; 

That dies not, but endures with pain, 
And slowly forms the firmer 

mind, 
Treasuring the look it cannot 
find, 
The words that are not heard again. 



The Danube to the Severn gave 

The darken'd heart that beat no 

more ; 
They laid him by the pleasant 
shore. 
And in the hearing of the wave. 

There twice a day the Severn fills ; 
The salt sea-water passes bv. 
And hushes half the babbling 
Wye, 

And makes a silence in the hills. 

The Wye is hush'd nor moved along, 
And hush'd my deepest grief of 

When fill'd with tears that can- 
not fall, 
I brim with sorrow drowning song 

The tide flows down, the wave again 
Is vocal in its wooded walls ; 
My deeper anguish also falls, 

And I can speak a little then. 





Whs 

Who speak their feeling as it is, 

And weep the 'fulness from the 

mind : 
' It will be hard,' they say, ' to find 

Another service such as this.' 

My lighter moods are like to these, 
That out of words a comfort win ; 
But there are other griefs within, 



For by the hearth the children sit 

Cold in that atmosphere of Death, 
And scarce endure to draw the 
breath. 

Or like to noiseless phantoms iiit : 



But open converse is there none. 
So much the vital spirits sink 
To see the vacant chair, and 
think, 
' How good ! how kind ! and he is 
gone.' 

XXI. 

I sing to him that rests below, 

And, since the grasses round me 

wave, 
I take the grasses of the grave. 
And make them pipes whereon to 
blow. 

The traveller hears me now and then. 
And sometimes harshly will he 

speak : 
'This fellow would make weak- 



Another answers, ' Let him be. 
He loves to make parade of 
That with his piping he ma 

The praise that comes to 





A third is wroth : ' Is this an hour 
For private sorrow's barren song, 
When more and more the people 
throng 

The chairs and thrones of civil 
power ? 

' A time to sicken and to swoon, 

When Science reaches forth her 

arms 
To feel from world to world, and 
charms 
Her secret from the latest moon ? ' 

Behold, ye speak an idle thing : 

Ye never knew the sacred dust : 
I do but sing because I must. 

And pipe but as the linnets sing : 

And. 



glad; her 



F 


or now her 


little 


ranged ; 
And one is 


sad; h 


an 


changed, 
se her brood 


is stol'n 



The path by which we twain did go, 
Which'led by tracts that pleased 



Thro' four sweet vears arose and 
fell, 
From flower to flower, from snow to 



From April on to April went. 
And glad at heart from May to iVTay : 

But where the path we walk'd began 
To slant the fifth autumnal slope. 
As we descended following Hope, 

There sat the Shadow fear'd of man ; 

Who broke our fair companionship. 
And spread his mantle dark and 

cold, 
And wrapt thee formless in the 

fold. 
And dull'd the murmur on thy lip. 




And bore thee where I could not see 
Nor follow, tho' I walk in haste. 
And think, that somewhere in 
the waste 

The Shadow sits and waits for me. 



n my sorrow shut. 
Or breaking into song by fits. 
Alone, alone, to where he sits, 
The Shadow cloak'dfrom head to foot. 

Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, 
I wander, often falling lame. 
And looking back to whence I 
came, 

Or on to where the pathway leads; 



And 



How 



hanged from 
not a leaf was 



Thro' lands where nc 

dumb; 
But all the lavish hills would hum 
The murmur of a happy Pan: 

When each by turns was guide to 

each. 
And Fancy light from Fancy 

caught. 
And Thought leapt out to wed with 

Thought 
Ere Thought could wed itself with 

Speech ; 

And all we met was fair and good. 
And all was good that Time 

could bring. 
And all the secret of the Spring 

Moved in the chambers of the blood; 

And many an old philosophy 

On Argive heights divinely sang. 
And round us all the thicket rang 

To manv a flute of Arcadv. 



And was the day of my delight 
As pure and perfect as I 
The very source and 
Day 

Is dash'd with wandering 





In Alanoriam. 



If all was good and fair we met, 

This earth had been the Paradise 
It never look'd to human eyes 

Since our first Sun arose and set. 

And is it that the haze of grief 

Makes former gladness loom so 

great ? 
The lowness of the present state. 

That sets the past in this relief? 

Or that the past will always win 
A glory from its being far j 
And orb into the perfect star 

We saw not, when we moved therein ? 

XXV. 

I know that this was Life, — the track 
Whereon with equal feet we 

fared ; 
And then, as now, the day pre- 
pared 
The daily burden for the back. 

But this it was that made me move 
As light as carrier-birds in air; 
I love the weight I had to bear. 

Because it needed help of Love : 

Nor could I weary, heart or limb. 

When mighty Love would cleave 

The lading of a single pain, 
And part it, giving half to him. 



Still onward winds the dreary way; 
I with it ; for I long to prove 
No lapse of moons can canker 
Love, 

Whatever fickle tongues may say. 

And if that eye which watches guilt 
And goodness, and hath power to 

see 
Within the green the moulder'd 
tree. 
And towers fall'n as soon as built — 

Oh, if indeed that eye foresee 
Or see (in Him'is no before) 
In more of life true life no more 

And Love the indifference to be. 





Then might I find, ere yet the morn 
Breaks hither over Indian seas. 
That Shadow waiting with the 
keys. 

To shroud me from my proper scorn. 



I envy not in any moods 

The captive void of noble rage. 
The linnet born within the cage, 

That never knew the summer woods : 

I envy not the beast that takes 

His license in the field of time, 
Unfetter'd by the sense of crime. 

To %vhom a conscience never wakes; 

Nor, what may count itself as blest, 
The heart that never plighted 

troth 
But stagnates in the weeds of 
sloth; 
Nor any want-begotten rest. 

I hold it true, whate'er befall ; 

I feel it, when I sorrow most ; 

'Tis better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at all. 



The time draws ne: 
Christ : 
The mooi 



the birth of 
hid ; the night is 



Four voices of four hamlets round, 
From far and near, on mead and 

moor. 
Swell out and fail, as if a door 
Were shut between me and the 
sound : 

Each voice four changes on the wind, 

That now dilate, and now decrease, 

Peace and goodwill, goodwill and 

peace. 

Peace and goodwill, to all mankind. 

This year I slept and woke with pain, 
I almost vvish'd no more to wake, 





And that my hold on life would 
break 
Before I heard those bells again : 

But they my troubled spirit rule, 

For they controll'd me when a 

boy ; 
They bring me sorrow touch'd 



mh 



joy. 



The merry merry bells of Yule. 



With such compelling cause to grieve 
As daily vexes household peace, 
And chains regret to his decease, 

How dare we keep our Christmas-eve ; 

Which brings no more a welcome 
guest 
To enrich the threshold of the 

night 
With shower'd largess of delight 
In dance and song and game and 
jest ? 

Yet go, and while the holly boughs 
Entwine the cold baptismal font. 
Make one wreath more for Use 
and Wont, 

That guard the portals of the house ; 

Old sisters of a day gone by. 

Gray nurses, loving nothing new ; 
Why should they miss their 
yearly due 
Before their time ? They too will 
die. 



XXX. 

With trembling fingers did we weave 
The holly round the Christmas 

hearth '; 
A rainy cloud possess'd the 
earth, 
And sadly fell our Christmas-eve. 

At our old pastimes in the hall 

We gambol'd, making vain 

pretence 
Of gladness, with an awful sense 

Of one mute Shadow watching all. 





We paused : the 
beech : 
We heard them sweep the 

land ; 

And in a circle hand-in-hand 
Sat silent, looking each at each. 

Then echo-like our voices rang ; 

W' e sung, tho' every eye was dim, 
A merry song we sang with him 

Last year : impetuously we sang : 

We ceased : a gentler feeling crept 
Upon us : surely rest is meet : 
' They rest,' we said, ' their sleep 
is sweet,' 

And silence follow'd, and we wept. 

Our voices took a higher range ; 

Once more we sang : ' They do 

not die 
Nor lose their mortal sympathy, 
Nor change to us, although they 
change ; 

' Rapt from the fickle and the frail 
With gather'd power, yet the 

same. 
Pierces the keen seraphic fiame 

From orb to orb, from veil to veil.' 

Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn. 
Draw forth the cheerful day from 

night: 
O Father, touch the east, and 
light 
The light that shone when Hope was 
born. 



XXXI. 

When Lazarus left his charnel-cave, 
And home to Mary's house 

return'd. 
Was this demanded — if he 
yearn'd 
To hear her weeping by his grave ? 

' Where wert thou, brother, tho.se 
four days ?' 
There lives nore cord of replv, 
Which telling what it is to die 

Had surely added praise to praise. 





From every house the neighbors 

The streets were fill'd with 

joyful sound, 
A solemn gladness even crown'd 

The purple brows of Olivet. 

Mehold a man raised up by Christ ! 

The rest remaineth unreveal'd ; 

He told it not ; or something 
seal'd 
The lips of that Evangelist. 



Her e;'es are homes of silent prayer, 
Nor other thought her mind 

admits 
But, he was dead, and there he 

And he that brought him back is there. 

Then one deep love doth supersede 
All other, when her ardent gaze 
Roves from the living brother's 
face, 

.^nd rests upon the Life indeed. 

All subtle thought, all curious fears. 
Borne down by gladness so com- 
plete, 
She bows, she bathes the Sa- 
viour's feet 
With costly spikenard and with tears. 

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful 
prayers, 
Whose loves in higher love 

endure ; 
What souls possess themselves 
so pure. 
Or is there blessedness like theirs .' 



XXXIII. 

O thou that after toil and storm 

Mayst seem to have reach'd a 

purer air. 
Whose faith has centre every- 
where, 
Nor cares to fix itself to form, 

Leave thou thy sister when she prays, 
early Heaven, her happy 




Her faith thro' form is pure as thine, 
Her hands are quicker unto good : 
Oh, sacred be the flesh and 
blood 

To which she links a truth divine ! 

See thou, that countest reason ripe 
In holding by the law within. 
Thou fail not in a world of sin, 

And ev'n for want of such a type. 

XXXIV. 

My own dim life should teach me this. 
That life shall live for evermore, 
Else earth is darkness at the 
core. 

And dust and ashes all that is ; 

This round of green, this orb of 

Fantastic beauty ; such as lurks 
In some wild Poet, when he 
works 
Without a conscience or an aim. 

What then were God to such as I ? 

'Twere hardly worth my while to 
choose 

Of things all mortal, or to use 
A little patience ere I die ; 

'Twere best at once to sink to peace. 
Like birds the charming serpent 

draws. 
To drop head-foremost in the 
jaws 
Of vacant darkness and to cease. 

XXXV. 

Yet if some voice that man could trust 
Should murmur from the narrow 

house, 
' The cheeks drop in ; the body 



bo' 



Man dies : 


,or is the 


e hope in dust : ' 


M 


ght I not 
But for 


sav ? ' V 
one hour 


,t even here, 
O Love, I strive 




Ill Memoriam. 



The meanings of the 

The sound of 
or slow 

Draw down .■Eonian hills, and sow 
The dust of continents to be ; 

And Love would answer with a sigh, 
' The sound of that forgetful shore 
Will change my sweetness more 
and more. 

Half-dead to know that I shall die.' 

O me, what profits it to put 

An idle case ? If Death were seen 
At first as Death, Love had not 
been, 

Or been in narrowest working shut, 



M( 



re fellowship of sluggish moods, 
Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape 
Had bruised the herb and crush'd 



Tho' truths in manhood darkly join, 
L>eep-seated in our mystic frame, 
We yield all blessing to the name 

Of Him that made them current coin ; 



And so the Word had breath, and 
wrought 
With human hands the creed of 

In loveliness of perfect deeds. 
More strong than all poetic thought ; 

Which he may read that binds the 
sheaf. 
Or builds the house, or digs the 



d eyes that v 
ind the coral reef. 





Urania speaks with darken'd brow : 
' Thou pratest here where thou 

art least ; 
This faith has many a purer priest, 

And many an abler voice than thou. 

' Go down beside thy native rill, 
On thy Parnassus set thy feet. 
And hear thy laurel whisper sweet 

About the ledges of the hill.' 

And my Melpomene replies, 

A touch of shame upon her cheek : 
' I am not worthy ev'n to speak 

Of thy prevailing mysteries ; 

' For I am but an earthly Muse, 
And owing but a little art 
To lull with song an aching heart, 

And render human love his dues; 

' But brooding on the dear one dead, 
And all he said of things divine, 
(And dear to me as sacred wine 

To dying lips is all he said), 

' I murmur'd. as I came along, 

Of comfort clasp'd in truth re- 

veal'd ; 
And loiter'd in the master's field, 

And darken'd sanctities with song.' 

xxxvm. 

With wearv steps I loiter nn, 

The' always under alter'd skies 
The purple from the distance dies. 

My prospect and horizon gone. 

No joy the blowing season gives. 
The herald melodies of spring. 
But in the songs I love to sing 

A doubtful gleam of solace lives. 

If anv care for what is here 

Survive in spirits render'd free. 
Then are these songs I sing of thee 

Not all ungrateful to thine ear. 



XXXIX. 

Old warder of these buried bo 
And answering now my 





/// Meitioriiun. 



With fruitful cloud and living 
smoke, 
Dark yew, that graspest at the stones 

And dippest toward the dreamless 
head. 
To thee too comes the golden 

hour 
When flower is feeling after 
flower ; 
But Sorrow — fixt upon the dead, 

And darkening the dark graves of 

What whisper'd from her lying 

lips ? 
Thy gloom is kindled at the tips, 
And passes into gloom again. 



Could we forget the widow'd hour 
And look on Spirits breathed 

As on a maiden in the day 
When first she wears her orange- 
flower ! 

When crown'd with blessing she doth 
rise 
To take her latest leave of home, 
And hopes and light regrets that 



Make A 



of he 



And doubtfu 

And tea 
face, 

As parting with a long embrace 
She enters other realms of love ; 

Her office there to rear, to teach. 
Becoming as is meet and fit 
A link among the days, to knit 

The generations each with each ; 

And, doubtless, unto thee is given 
A life that bears immortal fruit 
In those great offices that suit 

The full-grown energies of heaven. 





Be cheer'd with tidings of the 
bride. 
How often she herself return, 

And tell them all they would have told. 
And bring her babe, and make her 

boast. 
Till even those that miss"d her 

Shall count new things as dear as old : 

But thou and I have shaken hands. 
Till growing winters lay me low ; 
My paths are in the fields I know, 

And thine in undiscover'd lands. 



Thy spirit ere our fatal loss 

' Did ever rise from high to higher ; 
As mounts the heavenward altar- 
fire, 
As flies the lighter thro' the gross. 



But thou art turn'd to something 
strange, 
And I have lost the links that 

bound 
Thv changes; here upon the 
ground. 
No more partaker of thy change. 

Deep folly ! yet that this could be — 
That I could wing my will with 

might 
To leap the grades of life and 
light, 
And flash at once, my friend, to thee. 

For tho' my nature rarely yields 

To that vague fear implied in 

death ; 
Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath. 

The bowlings from forgotten fields ; 

Yet oft when sundown skirts the moor 
An innner trouble I behold, 
A spectral doubt whicli makes me 



Tho' following' 
Tl'.e wonde 
thee. 





In Memoriam. 



vex my heart with fancies dim ; 
He'still oiitstript me in the race; 
It was but unity of place 
'hat mnde me dreain I rank'd with 



And so may Place retain us still, 
And he the much-beloved again, 
A lord of large experience, train 

To riper growth the mind and will : 

And what delights can equal those 
That stir the spirit's inner deeps. 
When one that loves but knows 
not, reaps 
A truth from one that loves and 
knows? 



If Sleep and Death be truly one. 
And every spirit's folded bloom 
Thro' all its intervital gloom 

In some long trance should slumber 



Unconscious of the sliding hour, 
Bare of the body, might it last. 
And silent traces of the past 

Be all the color of the flower : 

So then were nothing lost to man ; 
So that still garden of the souls 



And at the spiritual prime 
Rewaken with the dawning soul. 




The days have vanish'd, tone and tint, 
And yet perhaps the hoarding 

sense 
Gives out at times (he knows not 
whence) 
A little flash, a mystic hint ; 

And in the long harmonious years 

(If Death so taste ' Lethean 

springs). 
May some dim touch of earthly 



Surprise thee rangii 



th thy peers. 



If such a dreamy touch should fall, 
O turn thee round, resolve the 

doubt ; 
My guardian angel will speak out 

In that high place, and tell thee all. 

XLV. 

The baby new to earth and sky. 

What time his tender palm is 

prest 
Against the circ''? of the breast, 

Has never thought that 'this is I :' 



So rounds he to a separate mind 

From whence clear memory may 

begin. 
As thro' the frame that binds him 



His isolation grows defin 
This use may lie in blno, 



XLVI. 
We ranging down this 



The path we came b\-, thor 

flower. 
Is shadow'd bv the growing hour, 
Lest life should fail in louking^back. 





■WITH MINE AFFIASCEO." —Page $2. 




In Memoriam. 



So be it: there no shade can last 

In that deep dawn behind the 

tomb, 
But clear from marge to marge 
shall bloom 
The eternal landscape of the past ; 

A lifelong tract of time reveal'd ; 

The fruitful hours of still in- 
crease ; 

Days order'd in a wealthy peace, 
And those five years its richest field. 



Look also, Love, a brooding star, 
A rosy warmth from marge to marge. 

XLVII. 

That each, who seems a separate 
whole. 
Should move his rounds, and 

fusins; all 
The skirts of self asain, should 
fall 
Remerging in the general Soul, 

Is faith as vague as all unsweet : 
Eternal form shall still divide 
The eternal soul from all beside; 

And I shall know him when we meet : 

And we shall sit at endless feast. 

Enjoying each the other's good : 
What vaster dream can hit the 

Of Love on earth ? He seeks at least 

Upon the last and sharpest height, 
Before the spirits fade awav, 
Some landing-place, to clasp and 
say, 

' Farewell ! We lose ourselves in light.' 



If these brief lays, of Sorrow born, 
Were taken to be such as closed 
Grave doubts and answers here 
pro])osed. 
Then these were such as men might 
scorn : 





Her care is not to part and prove ; 
She takes, when harsher moods 

What slender shade of doubt 
may flit. 
And makes it vassal unto love : 

And hence, indeed, she sports with 
words, 
But better serves a wholesome 

law. 
And holds it sin and shame to 
draw 
The deepest measure from the chords : 



Nor dar 


she 


trus 


a large 


r la\ 






But 


rather lo 


jsens from 


the lip 




Sho 
th 


atdi 


' 


v-flights 


of 


song, 


Th 


eir wi 


igs 1 




rs, and 


skim away. 



ture, from the 



From art, from 
schools, 
Let random influences glance. 
Like light in many a shiver'd 
lance 
That breaks about the dappled pools : 

The lightest wave of thought shall lisp, 
The fancy's tenderest eddy 

wreathe, 
The slightest air of song shall 
breathe 
To make the sullen surface crisp. 

And look thy look, and go thy wav. 
But blame not thou the winds 

that make 
The seeming-wanton ripple break. 

The tender-pencil'd shadow play. 

Beneath all fancied hopes and fears 
Ay me, the sorrow deepens down, 
Who.se muffled motions blindly 
drown 

The bases of my life in i 



Be near me when my light is low, 

When the blood creeps, and the 
nerves prick 




In Menioriam. 



Be near me when the sensuous frame 
Is rack'd with pangs that conquer 

trust: 
And Time, a maniac scattering 
dust, 
And Life, a Fury slinging flame. 

Be near me when 

And men the 

'ihat lay th 
and sing 
And weave their petty cell; 

Be near me 



faith is dry, 

i of latter spring, 

eggs, and sting 

id die. 



fade away, 
1 u ponU the term of human str 
.And on the low dark verge of 
The twilight of eternal day. 



Do we indeed desire the dead 

Should still be near us at our 

side .? 
Is there no baseness we would 
hide .' 
No inner vileness that we dread ? 

.Shall he for whose applause I strove, 
I had such reverence for his 

blame, 
See with clear eve some hidden 
shame 
And I be lessen'd in his love.' 

I wrong the grave with fears untrue ; 
Shall love be blamed for want of 

faith ? 
There must be wisdom with great 
Death : 
The dead shall look me thro' and thro'. 

Be near us when we climb or fall : 
Ve watch, like God, the rolling 

hours 
With larger other eyes than ours, 
ce for us all. 




thee as I ought, 
reflects the thing be- 



1 the 



■Yet blam 
song,' 
The Spirit of true love 
' Thou canst not mo\'i 
thy side. 
Nor human frailtv du me « 




vords are only words, 

ved 

topn 



froth of thought 
thou thv plaii 



' What keeps a spirit wh 
To that ideal which 



the sinless 



' So fret not, like an idle girl, 

That life is dash'd with flecks of 

sin. 
Abide : thy wealth is gather'd in, 

When Time hath sunder'd shell from 



How many a father have I seen, 
A sober man, among his bo\s. 
Whose youth was full of foolish 

Who wears his manhood hale and 
green : 

And dare we to this fancy give, 

That had the wild oat not been 

sown. 
The soil, left barren, scarce had 
grown 
The grain by which a man may live .' 

Or, if we held the doctrine sound 
For life outliving heats of youth, 
luld preach it as a 



Yet wh 
truth 
To those that eddy round and round .' 

Hold thou the good : define it well : 
For fear divine Philosophy 
Should push beyond her mark, 
and be 

Procuress to the Lords of 





Oh yet we trust that somehow good 
'Will be the final goal of ill, 
To pangs of nature, sins of will. 

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet ; 
That not one life shall be de- 

stroy'd, 
Or cast as rubbish to the void, 
When God hath made the pile com- 
plete ; 

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 
That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire. 

Or but subserves another's gain. 

Behold, we know not anything; 

I can but trust that good shall fall 
At last— tar off— at last, to all, 

And every winter change to spring. 

So runs mv dream : but what am I ? 
An infant crving in the night : 
An infant crying for the light: 

And with no language but a cry. 

LV. 

The wish, that of the living whole 
No life may fail beyond the grave, 
Derives it not from what we have 

The likest God within the soul .' 

Are God and Nature then at strife. 
That Nature lends such evil 

dreams .' 
So careful of the type she seems. 

So careless of the single life; 

That I, considering everywhere 

Her secret meaning' in her deeds. 
And finding that of fifty seeds 

She often brings but one to bear, 



U|)on the great world's altar-stairs 
That slope thro' darkness up to God, 



retch lame hands of faith, and 
grope. 





And gather dust and chaff, and cal 
To what I feel is Lord of all. 
And faintly trust the larger hope. 



' So careful of the type?' but no. 

From scarped cliff and quarried 

She cries, ' A thousand types are 
gone : 
I care for nothing, all shall go. 

' Thou makest thine appeal to me : 
I bring to life, I bring to death : 
The spirit does but mean the 
breath : 

I know no more.' And he, shall he, 

Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair, 
Such splendid purpose in his eyes. 
Who roll'd the psalm to wintry 
skies. 

Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer, 

Who trusted God was love indeed 
And love Creation's final law — 
Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw 

With ravine, shriek'd against his 
creed — 

Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills 
Who battled for the True, the Just, 
Be blown about the desert dust. 

Or seal'd within the iron hills ? 



No more? A monster then, a dream, 
A discord. Dragons of the prime, 
That tare each other in their 
slime, 

W^ere mellow music match'd with him. 



LVI 



Peace ; 



,vay : the song of woe 
Is after all an earthly song : 
Peace ; come away : we do him 
wrong 
To sing so wildlv : let us 50. 





/;/ Memoriajii. 



Come; let us go: your cheeks are 
pale ; 
But half my life I leave behind : 
Methinks my friend is richly 



shr 



pas: 



ly work will fail. 



in the 



:in hearing dies, 
One set slow bell will seem to toll 
The passing of the sweetest soul 
That ever look'd with human eyes. 

I hear it now, and o'er and o'er, 
Eternal greetings to the dead ; 
And ' Ave, Ave, Ave, ' said, 

' Adieu, adieu ' for evermore. 



In those sad words I took farewell : 
Like echoes in sepulchral halls. 
As drop by drop the water falls 

In vaults and catacombs, they fell ; 

And, falling, idiv broke the peace 

Of hearts that beat from day to 

Half-conscious of their dving clay. 
And those old crypts where they sha'll 
cease. 

The high Muse answer'd : ' Wherefore 
grieve 
Tliy brethren with a fruitless tear t 
Abide a little longer here. 

And thou shalt take a nobler leave.' 



Sorrow, wilt thou live with me 
No casual mistress, but a wife, 
My bosom-friend and half of life ; 
As I confess it needs must be ; 

O Sorrow, wilt thou rule mv blood. 
Be sometimes lovelv like a bride. 
And nut thy harsher moods aside, 

If thou wilt have me wise and good. 

My centred passion oannot move. 
Nor will it lesson from to-day 
But I'll have leave at times to play 

As with the creature of my love ; 




And set thee forth, for thou art mine. 
With so much hope for years to 

That, howso'er I know thee, some 
Could hardly tell what name were 
thine. 



He past ; a soul of nobler tone 

My spirit loved and loves him vet. 
Like some poor girl whose heart 
is set 

On one whose rank exceeds her own. 

He mixing with his proper sphere, 
■She finds the baseness of her lot. 
Half jealous of she knows not 
what. 

And envying all that meet him there. 

The little village looks forlorn ; 

She sighs amid her narrow days, 
Moving about the household ways, 

In that dark house where she was born. 

The foolish neighbors come and go. 
And tease her till the dav d'raws 

by; 
At night she weeps, ' How vain 

How should he love a thing so low .' ' 

LXI. 

iublime. 



change 



If, in thy second st£ 

Thv ransom'd 
plies 

With all the circle of the wise. 
The perfect flower of human time ; 

And if thou cast thine eyes below. 
How dimly character'd and slight, 
How dwarf'd a growth of cold 
and night. 
How blanch'd with darkness must I 
grow ! 



I loved thee. Spirit, and love, nor 
can 
The soul of Shakspeare love thee more. 





In Menwriam. 



Tho' if an eye that's downward cast 
Could make thee somewhat 

blench or fail, 
Then be my love an idle tale, 

And fading legend of the past ; 



On some unworthy heart with 
But lives to wed an equal mind ; 

And breathes a novel world, the while 
His other passion wholly dies, 
Or in the light of deeper eyes 

Is matter for a flying smile. 

LXIII. 
Yet pitv for a horse o'er-driven, 

Aud love in which my hound has 

part, 
Can hang no weight upon my 
heart 
In its assumptions up to heaven ; 

And I am so much more than these. 
As thou, perchance, art more 

than I, 
And yet I spare them sympathy, 

And I would set their pains at ease. 

So mayst thou watch me where I 
weep. 
As, unto vaster motions bound, 
The circuits of thine orbit round 

A higher height, a deeper deep. 



Dost thou look back on what hath 
been. 
As some divinely gifted man. 
Whose life in low estate began 

And on a simple village green ; 

Who breaks his birth's invidious bar. 
And grasps the skirts of happy 

chance, 
And breasts the blows of circum- 
stance, 
.And grapples with his evil star ; 





Who makes by force his merit known 
And lives to clutch the golden 

keys. 
To mould a mighty state's 
decrees. 
And shape the whisper of the throne ; 



\ei feels, as in a pensive dream. 

When all his active powers are 

still, 
A distant dearness in the hill, 

A secret sweetness in the stream. 

The limit of his narrower fate, 

While yet beside its vocal springs 
He play'd at counsellors and 
kings,' 

With one that was his earliest mate ; 

Who ploughs with pain his native lea 
And reaps the labor of his 

hands, 
Or in the furrow musing stands; 

' Does my old friend remember me.' ' 



Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt ; 
I lull a fancy trouble-tost 
With ' Love''s too precious to be 

A little grain shall not be spilt.' 



And in that solace can I .sing. 

Till out of painful pha 

wrought 
There flutters up a haj 
thought. 
Self-balanced on a lightsome wing; 

Since we deserved the name 
friends, 
And thine effect so lives in 
A part nf mine may live in 

And move thee on to noble end 





In Menioriam. 



You thought my heart too far dis- 
eased; 
You wonder when my fancies 

play 
To find me gay among the gay, 
Ltke one with any trifle pleased. 



Has made me kindlv with my 
kind, 
And like to him whose sight is lost ; 

Whose feet are guided thro' the land. 
Whose jest among his friends is 

free. 
Who takes the children on his 
knee, 
And wiuds their curls about his hand : 

He plays with threads, he beats his 

For pastime, dreaming of the 

sky; 
His inner day can never die, 
His night of loss is always there. 



When on my bed the moonlight falls, 
I know that in thy place of rest 
By that broad water of the west. 

There comes a glory on the walls : 



The mystic glory swims away; 

From off my bed the moonlight 



And closnit 
eyes 
I sleep till dusk i 




eaves of w 
dipt in gray: 



And then I know the mist is drawn 
. from coast to coast. 
And in the dark church like a 
ghost 
Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. 




LXVIII. 
When in the down I sink mv head, 
Sleep, Death's twin-brother, tnnes 

my breath ; 
Sleep, Death's twin -brother, 
knows not Death, 
Nor can I dream of thee as dead : 

I walk as ere I walk'd forlorn, 

When all our path was fresh with 

dew. 
And all the bugle breezes blew 

Reveillee to the breaking morn. 

But what is this ? I turn about, 
I find a trouble in thine eye. 
Which makes me sad I know not 



resolve the do 



But ere the lark hath left the lea 

I wake, and I discern the truth ; 
It is the trouble of my youth 

That foolish sleep transfers to thee. 

LXIX. 

I dream'd there would be Spring no 

That Nature's ancient power was 

lost : 
The streets were black with 

smoke avd frost, 
They chatter'd trifles at the door: 

I wander'd from the noisy town, 

I found a wood with thorny 

boughs : 
I took the thorns to bind my 
brows, 
I wore them like a civic crown : 



From youth and babe and hoary 

hairs: 
Thev call'd me in the public 




scpiares 
The fool that wears a crown of 
thorns : 


'5 


Thev call'd me fool, thev call'd me 
' child: 
I found an angel of the night ; 


] 




egi( 

That seem'd to touch it inl 
The voice was not the v 
grief. 
The words were hard to under 



I cannot see the features right, 

When on the gloom 1 strive to 

paint 
The face I know; the hues are 
faint 
And mix with hollow masks of night ; 

Cloud-towers by ghostly masons 
wrought, 
A gulf that ever shuts and gapes, 
A hand that points, and palled 

In shadowy thoroughfares of 



And crowds that stream from vawning 
doors, 
And shoals of pucker'd faces 

Park bulks that tumble half alive, 
And lazy lengths on boundless shores; 

Till all at once beyond the will 
I hear a wizard music roll, 
And thro' a lattice on the soul 

Looks thv fair face and makes it still. 



Sleep, kinsman thou to deatii and 
trance 
And madness, thou hast forged at 

last 
A night-long Present of the Past 
In which we went thro' summer 
France. 

Hadst thou such credit wi'h the soul .' 
Thenbringan opiate trebly strong. 
Drug down the blindfold sense of 





While now we talk as once we talk'd 
Of men and minds, the dust of 

change. 
The days that grow to something 
strange, 
In walking as of old we walk'd 

Beside the river's wooded reach. 

The fortress, and the mountain 

ridge. 
The cataract flashing from the 
bridge. 
The breaker breaking on the beach. 

LXXII. 

Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again, 
And howlest, issuing out of night. 
With blasts that blow the poplar 



And lash with storm the 
pane .' 

Day, when my crow.i'd estate begun 
To pine in that reverse of doom, 
Which sicken'd every living 
bloom, 

And blurr'd the splendor of the sun ; 

Who usherest in the dolorous hour 
With thy quick tears that make 

the rose 
Pull sideways, and the daisy close 

Her crimson fringes to the shower ; 

Who might'st have heaved a w^indless 
flame 
Up the deep East, or, whispering, 

play'd 
A chequer-work of beam and 
shade 
Along the hills, yet look'd the same. 

As wan, as chill, as wild as now ; 

Day, mark'd as with some hideous 

crime, 
When the dark hand struck down 
thro' time. 
And cancell'd nature's best : but thou, 

Lift as thou may 





In Mcmoria?n. 



And whirl the ungainer'd sheaf 
And sow the sky with flying boughs, 



And up thy vault w 

Climb thy thick noon, disastrous 



Touch thy dull goal of joyless 
And hide thy shame beneath the 



So manv worlds 


so much to do. 


So little do 


le, such things to be. 


How know 


I what had need of 


thee. 




For thou wert 


strong as thou wert 



The fame is quench'd that I foresaw, 
The head hath niiss'd an earthly 

wreath : 
I curse not nature, no, nor death; 

For nothing is that errs from law. 

We pass; the path that each man 
trnd 
Is dim, or will be dim, with 

weeds : 
What fame is left for human 
deeds 
In endless age ? It rests with God. 

O hollow wraith of dying fame. 

Fade wholly, while the soul exults. 
And self-infolds the large results 

Of force that would have forged a 
name. 



As sometimes in a dead man's face. 
To those that watch it more and 

more, 
A likeness, hardly seen before. 

Comes out — to some one of his race: 




So, dearest, now thy hi 

I see thee what thou art, 
know 

Thy likeness to the wise belo' 
Thy kindred with the great of old. 



cold, 




But there is more than I can see. 
And what I see I leave unsaid, 
Nor speak it, knowing Death has 
made 

His darkness beautiful Avith thee. 



I leave thy praises unexprecs'd 

In verse that brings myself relief, 
And by the measure of my grief 

I leave thy greatness to be guess'd ; 

What practice howsoe'er expert 

In tilting aptest words to things, 
C)r voice the richest-toned that 

Hath power to give thee as thou wert ? 

I care not in these fading days 

To raise a cry that lasts not long. 
And round thee with the breeze of 
song 

To stir a little dust of praise. 



The world which credits what is 
done 
Is cold to all that might have been. 

So here shall silence guard thy fame; 

But somewhere, out of human 
view, 

Whate'er thy hands are set to do 
Is wrought with 'tumult of acclaim. 



Take wings of fancy, and ascend, 
And in a moment set thy face 
Where all the starry heavens of 
space 

Are sharpen'd to a needle's end ; 

Take wings of foresight ; lighten thro' 
The secular abyss to come, 
.■\nd lo, thy deepest lays are dumb 

Before the mouldering of a yew; 



And if the matin songs, that 
The darkness of our pi. 





In Mcmoriam. 



Thine own shall wither in the 
Ere half the lifetime of an oak. 

Ere these have clothed their branchy 
bowers 
With fifty Mays, thy songs are 

And what are they when these 

The ruin'd shells of hollow towers ? 



What hope is here for modern rhyme 
To him, who turns a musing eye 
On songs, and deeds, and lives, 
that lie 

Foreshorten'd in the tract of time ? 

These mortal lullabies of pain 

May bind a book, may line a box. 
May serve to curl a maiden's 
locks ; 

Or when a thousand moons shall wane 

A man upon a stall may find. 

And, passing, turn the page that 

tells 
A grief, then changed to some- 
Sung by a long-forgotten mind. 

But what of that? My darken'd ways 
Shall ring with music all the 

same ; 
To breathe mv loss is more than 
fame, 
To utter love more sweet than praise. 

LX.WIII. 
Again at Christmas did we weave 

The holly round the Christmas 

hearth ; 
The silent snow possess'd the 
earth. 
And calmly fell our Christmas-eve : 

The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, 
No wing of wind the region swept, 
l-'.ut over all things brooding slept 




As i 



the 




hn,g 



Again our anCK 

place, 
The mimic pict 

grace. 
And dance , and song and hoodman- 

blind. 

Who show'd a token of distress.' 

No single tear, no mark of pain : 
O sorrow, then can sorrow wane ? 

O grief, can grief be changed to less ? 



frame. 
Her deep relations 
But with long use her I 



' More than my brothers are to 
Let this ' not ve.\ thee, 

heart ! 
I know thee of what for 



And hill and wood and field did 
print 
The same sweet forms in either mind. 

For us the same cold streamlet curl'd 
Thro' all his eddying coves; the 



All 1 



■inds that roa 
■rs of the beau 



e twllighi 
world. 



Ere childhood's 



And so my wealth 



use of something lost. 





In Memoriam. 



And he supplied my want the 
As his uniikeness fitted mine. 

LXXX. 
If any vague desire should rise, 

That holy Death ere Arthur died 
Had moved me kindly from his 



And dropt the du 



eyes ; 
m had 



Then fancy shapes, as fancy ca 
The grief my loss in h 

wrought, 
A grief as deep as life or thought 

But stay'd in peace with God and man. 



I made a picture in the brain ; 

I hear the sentence that he 

speaks ; 
He bears the burthen of the 
weeks 
But turns his burthen into gain. 

His credit thus shall set me free ; 

And, influence-rich to soothe and 
save, 

Unused example from the grave 
Reach out dead hands to comfort me. 



Could I have said while he was here, 
' My love shall now no further 

range ; 
There cannot come a mellower 
change, 
For now is love mature m ear.' 

Love, then, had hope of richer store : 
What end is here to my com- 
plaint? 
This haunting whisper makes me 
faint, 
' More years had made me love thee 
more.' 

But Death returns an answer sweet : 
' My sudden frost was sudden 




LXXXII. 

je not any feud with Death 
r'or changes wrought on 

and face ; 
Sio lower life that e 




fright 



process niovnig on 



And these are but the shatter'd 
stalks. 
Or ruin'd chrysalis of one. 

Nor blame I Death, because he bare 
The use of virtue out of earth : 
I know transplanted human 
worth 

Will bloom to profit, otherwhere. 

For this alone on Death I wreak 

The wrath that garners in my 



heart 
:pu 



our lives so far apart 
hear each other speak. 

LXXX 1 1 1. 

Dip down upon the northern shore, 
O sweet new-year delaying long: 
Thou doest expectant natur 
wrong ; 

Delaying long, delay no more. 



What stays the 



from the clouded 

Thy sweetness from its proper 

place ? 
Can trouble live with April days, 
Or sadness in the suinmer moons } 

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, 
The little speedwell's darling blue. 
Deep tulips dash'd with fiery 



Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire 

O thou, new-year, delaying long, 
Delayest the sorrow in my bl 
That longs to burst a frozen 1 

And flood a fresher throat with so 





In Memoriam. 



When I contemplate all alone 

The life that had been thine 

below, 
And fix my thoughts on all the 



To which thy 

I see thee sittin: 
A central h 
In glance 



would have 



own'd with good, 
ith diffusing bliss 
smile, and clasp 



On all the branches of thy blood ; 

Thy blood, my friend, and partly 
mine; 
For now the day was drawing on. 
When thou should'st link thy life 



ith . 



Of 1 



in house, and boys of thii 



Had babbled ' Uncle ' on my knee ; 
But that remorseless iron hour 
Made cypress of her orange 
flower, 

Despair of Hope, and earth of th«e. 

I seem to meet their least desire, 

To clap their cheeks, to call them 

mine. 
I see their unborn faces shine 

Beside the never-lighted tire. 

I see myself an honor'd guest. 

Thy partner in the fiowerv walk 
Of letters, genial table-talk, 

Or deep dispute, and graceful jest ; 

Whil 



And sun by sun the happy days 
Descend below the golden hills 



With promise of a morn as fair ; 

And all the train of bounteous 



Conduct by paths of growing 
pov 

" ' ha 




To reverence and the sib 




Till slowly worn her earthly robe, 

Her lavish mission richly 

wrought, 
Leaving great legacies of thought, 
Thy spirit should fail from off the 
globe; 

What time mine own might also flee, 
As link'd with thine in love and 

fate, 
And, hovering o'er the dolorous 
strait 
To the other shore, involved in thee. 

Arrive at last the blessed goal. 

And He that died in Holy Land 
Would reach us out the shining 
hand, 

And take us as a single soul. 

What reed was that on which I leant? 
Ah, backward fancy, wherefore 

wake 
The old bitterness again, and 
break 
The low beginnings of content. 



LXXXV. 

This truth came borne with bier and 
pall, 
I felt it, when I sorrow'd most, 
'Tis better to have loved and lost. 

Than never to have lovsd at all 

O true in word, and tried in deed. 
Demanding, so to bring relief 
To this which is our common 
grief. 

What kind of life is that Head; 

And whether trust in things above 
Be dimm'd of sorrow, or sus- 

tain'd; 
And whether love for him have 
drain'd 
My capabilities of love ; 

Your words have virtue such as 
draws 
A faithful 
breast. 





In Memoriam. 



My blood an even tenor kept, 

Till on mine ear this message 

falls, 
That in Vienna's fatal walls 
God's finger touch'd him, and he 
slept. 



That range above our mortal 

state, 
In circle round the blessed gate. 
Received and gave him welcome there; 

And led him thro' the blissful cliHies, 
And show'd him in the fountain 

fresh 
All knowledge that the sons of 
flesh 
Shall gather in the cycled times. 

But I remain'd, whose hopes were 
dim, 
Whose life, whose thoughts were 

little worth. 
To wander on a darken'd earth, 
Where all things round me breathed 
of him. 

O friendship, equal-poised control, 
O heart, with kindliest motion 
warm, 

sacred essence, other form, 
O solemn ghost, O crowned soul ! 

Yet none could better know than I, 
How much of act at human hands 
The sense of hnman will demands 

By which we dare to live or die. 

Whatever wav mv davs decline, 

1 felt and feel, tho' left alone. 
His being working in mine own, 

The footsteps of his life in mine; 

A life that all the Muses deck'd 

With sifts of grace, that might 

exoress 
All-cnmprehensive tenderness. 

All subtilizing intellect : 





And so my passion hath not swerved 
To works of weakness, but I find 
An image comforting the mind. 

And in my grief a strength reserved. 

Likewise the imaginative woe. 

That loved to handle spiritual 

strife. 
Diffused the shock thro' all my 
life. 
But in the present broke the blow. 

My pulses therefore beat again 

For other friends that once I met ; 
Nor can it suit me to forget 

The mighty hopes that make us men. 

I woo your love : I count it crime 
To mourn for any overmuch ; 
I, the divided half of such 

A friendship as had master'd Time ; 



Which masters Time indeed, and is 
Eternal, separate from fears : 
The all-assuming months and 
years 

Can take no part away from this : 

But Summer on the steaming floods. 
And Spi ng that swells the narrow 

brooks. 
And Autumn, with a noise of 

That gather in the waning woods. 

And every pulse of wind and wave 
Recalls, in change of light or 

gloom. 
My old affection of the tomb. 

And my prime passion in the grave : 

My old affection of the tomb, 

A part of stillness, yearns to 

'Arise, and get thee forth and 
seek 
A friendship for the years to come. 

' I watch thee from the quiet shore ; 

Thy spirit up to mine can reach ; 

But in dear words of human 
speech 
We two communicate no more." 





Ill Memoriam. 



I, ' Can clouds of nature stain 
The starry clearness of the free? 
How is it? Canst thou feel for 
me 
Some painless sympathy with pain?' 

And lightly does the whisper fall ; 

' 'Tis hard for thee to fathom 
this: 

I triumi)h in conclusive bliss, 
And that serene result of all.' 



So hold I commerce with the dead ; 

Or so methinks the dead wouh 

say; 



Andi 



shall 
life be 



■fed. 



Now looking to some settled end, 

That these things pass, and I 

shall prove 
A meeting somewhere, love with 
love, 
I crave your pardon, O my friend ; 



If not so fresh, with love as true, 
I, clasping brother-hands, aver 
I could not, if I would, transfer 

The whole I felt for him to you. 

For which be they that hold apart 
The promise of the golden hours ? 
First love, first friendship, equal 
powers, 

That marry with the virgin heart. 

Still mine, that cannot but deplore. 
That beats within a lonely place. 
That yet remembers his embrace. 

But at his footstep leaps no more, 

My heart, tho' widow'd, may not rest 
Quite in the love of what is gone, 
liut seeks to beat in time with one 

That warms another living breast. 

take the imperfect gift I bring. 
Knowing the primrose yet is dear, 





Sweet after showers, ambrosial air. 
That roUest from the gorgeous 

gloom 
Of evening over brake and bloom 

And meadow, slowly breathing bare 

The round of space, and rapt below 
Thro' all the dewy-tasseil'd wood, 
And shadowing down the horned 
flood 

In ripples, fan my brows and blow 

The fever from my cheek, and sigh 
The full new' life that feeds thy 

breath 
Throughout my frame, till Doubt 
and Death, 
111 brethren, let the fancy fly 

From belt to belt of crimson seas 

On leagues of odor streaming far. 
To where in yonder orient star 

A hundred spirits whisper ' Peace.' 



I past beside the reverend walls 

In which of old I wore the gown ; 
I roved at random thro' the town. 

And saw the tumult of the halls ; 

And heard once more in college fanes 
The storm their high-built organs 

make. 
And thunder-music, rolling, shake 

The prophet blazon'd on the panes ; 

And caught once more the distant 
shout, 
The measured pulse of racing oars 
Among the willows ; paced the 

And many a bridge, and all about 

The same gray flats again, and felt 
The same, but not the same ; and 





Ill Mentor iatn. 



Of songs, and clapping hands, a 
That crash'd the glass and beat ■ 



Where once we held debate. 
Of youthful friends, un .1 



When one would aim an arrow fair. 
But send it slackly from th 

string ; 
And one would pierce an oute 
ring. 
And one an inner, here and .there ; 

And last the master-bowman, he, 

Would cleave the mark. A wil 

ing ear 
We lent him. Who, but Imng t 

The rapt oration flowing free 

From point to point, with power an 
grace 
And music in the bounds of law, 
To those conclusions when we sa\ 

The God within him light his lace, 

And seem to lift the form, and glow 
In azure orbits heavenly^wise ; 
And over those ethereal eyes 

The bar of Michael Angelo. 



Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet, 
Rings Eden thro' the budded 
quicks, 

tell me where the senses mix, 
O tell me where the passions meet, 

Whence radiate : fierce e.\tremes em- 
ploy 
Thy spirits in the darkening leaf. 
And in the midmost heart of grief 

Thy passion clasps a secret joy : 

And I — my harp would prelude woe — 

1 cannot all command the strings ; 
The glory of the sum of things 

Will flash along the cords aiiflgo. 





Witch-elms that 
floor 
Of this flat 1 

bright ; 
And thou, with all thv breadth and 
height 
Of foliage, towering sycamore; 

How often, hither wander'ng down, 
Mv Arthur found vour slradows 

fair, 
And shook to all the liberal air 

The dust and din and steam of town : 

He brought an eye for all he saw; 

He mi.\t in all our simple sports ; 

They pleased him, fresh from 
brawling courts 
And dusty purlieus of the law. 

O joy to him in this retreat, 

Immantled in ambrosial dark. 
To drink the cooler air, and mark 

The landscape winking thro' the heal ; 

O sound to rout the brood of cares. 
The sweep of scythe in morning 

dew. 
The gust that round tlie garden 
flew. 
And tumbled half the mellowing pears! 

O bliss, when all m circle drawn 

About him, heart and ear were fed 
To hear him, as he lay and read 

The Tuscan poets on the lawn : 

Or in the all-golden afternoon 

A guest, or ha])py sister, sung, 
C)r here she brought the harp and 



A ballad to the brighl 

Nor less it pleased in livelier 
Beyond the bounding hill 
And break the livelong 
dav 

With banquet m 



moon : 





Disciiss'd the books to luve or hate, 
(_>r touch'cl the changes of the state, 
hreaded some Socratic dream ; 



He loved to rail against it still, 
For 'ground in yonder social mill 
We rub each other's angles down, 

' And merge ' he said ' in form and 

gloss 

The picturesque of man and man.' 

We talk'd : the stream beneath 

us ran, 

The wine-flask lying couch'd in moss, 

Or cooFd within the glooming wave ; 
And last, returning from afar, 
Before the crimson-circled star 

Had faU'u into her father's grave. 



An 


The milk that bubbled in 
d buzzings of the honied h 


the pail, 






xc. 






He 


tasted lov 
Nor eve 


'. with half his 
drank the 


nind, 



Where nighest heaven, who first 
could fling 
This bitter seed among mankind; 

That could the dead, whose dying eyes 
Were closed with wail, resume 

their life, 
Thev would but find in child and 
wife 
An iron welcome when they rise : 

'Twas well, indeed, when warm with 



if they came who past away. 
Behold their brides in othe 
hands ; 




And 



he hard heir strides about 
lands, 
nil not yield them fc 




Yea, tho' their sons were none of these, 
Not less the yet-loved sire would 

make 
Confusion worse than death, and 
shake 
The pillars of domestic peace. 

Ah dear, but come thou back to me : 
Whatever change the years have 

wrought, 
I find not yet one lonely thought 

That cries against my wish for thee. 

xci. 
When rosy plumelets tuft the larch. 
And 'rarely pipes the mounted 

thrush ; 
Or underneath the barren bush 
Flits by the sea-blue bird of March ; 

Come, wear the form by which I know 
Thy spirit in time among thy 

peers ; 
The hope of unacconiplish'd years 

Be large and lucid round thy brow. 

When summer's hourly-mellowing 
change 
May breathe, with many roses 

Upon the thousand waves of 
wheat. 
That ripple round the lonely grange ; 

Come : not in watches of the night. 
But where the sunbeam broodeth 

warm. 
Come, beauteous in thine after 
form. 
And like a finer light in light. 

xcii. 

If any vision should reveal 

Thy likeness, I might count it vain 
As but the canker of the brain ; 

Yea, tho' it spake and made appeal 

To chances where our lots were cast 
Together in the days behind. 





/// Manoriam. 



ght but say, I hear a wind 
Of memory murmuring the past. 

spake and bared to view 
A tact within the coming year ; 
And tho' the months, revolving 
near, 
Should prove the phantom-warning 



je, 



Thev 



But spiritual presentiments, 
And such refraction of eve 
As often rises ere they rise. 


Its 




XCUI. 




I shall not see thee. Dare I sa 
No spirit ever brake the ba 
That stays him from the 
land 

Where first he walk'd when cla 


id 



No visual shade of some one lost. 

But he, the Spirit himself, may 

come 
Where all the nerve of sense is 

Spirit to Spirit, Ghost to Ghost. 

O, therefore from thy sightless range 
With gods in unconjectured bliss, 
O. from the distance of the abyss 

Of tenfold-complicated change. 

Descend, and touch, and enter ; hear 
The wish too strong for words to 

name ; 
That in this blindness of the frame 

My Ghost may feel that thine is near. 



How pure at heart and sound in head, 
With what divine affections bold 
Should be the man whose thought 
would hold 

An hour's communion with the dead. 

In vain shalt thou, or any, call 

The spirits from their golden day, 
Except, like them, thou too canst 





They haunt the silence of the breast. 
Imaginations calm and fair. 
The memory like a cloudless air. 

The conscience as a sea at rest • 

But when the heart is full of din, 

And doubt beside the portal waits. 
They can but listen at the gates, 

And hear the household jar within. 



By night we linger'd on the lawn, 

For underfoot the herb was dry ; 
And genial warmth ; and o'er the 
sky 

The silvery haze of summer drawn ; 

And calm that let the tapers burn 

Unwavering ; not a cricket chirr'd : 
The brook alone far-off was heard. 

And on the board the fluttering urn : 

And bats went round in fragrant skies. 
And wheel'd or lit the filmy shapes 
That haunt the dusk, with ermine 
capes 

And woolly breasts and beaded eyes; 

While now we sang old songs that 
peal'd 
From knoll to knoll, where, 

couch'd at ease. 
The white kine glinimer'd, and 
the trees 
Laid their dark arms about the field. 

But when those others, one by one. 
Withdrew themselves from me 

and night, 
And in the house light after light 
■ and I was all alone. 



Went 
A hun 



tnger seized my heart ; I read 
Of that glad year which once had 

been. 
In those fall'n leaves which kept 

their green. 
The noble letters of the dead : 



And strangely on the silence 
The silent-speaking wi. 
strange 





In Memoriam. 



spoke 



dumb cry defying 
h ; and strangely 



The faith, the vigor, Imld to dwell 

On doubts that drive the coward 

back. 
And keen thro' wordy snares to 
track 
Suggestion to her inmost cell. 



the past. 
And all at once it seem'd at last 
The living soul was fiash'd on mine, 

And mine in this was wound, and 
whlrl'd 
About empvreal heights of 

thought, 
And came on that which is, and 
caught 
The deep pulsations of the world, 



/toman music measuring ( 
The steps of Time— 

of Chance — 
The blows of Death, 
my trance 
Was cane:;] I'd, stricken 
doubt. 



shocks 
length 



Till 



the dLiubtf 



dusk reveal'd 
e more where, 



The knolls oi 

couch'd at ea 
The white kine glimmer'd, and the 

trees 
Laid their dark arms about the field: 

And suck'd from out the distant gloom 
A breeze began to tremble o'er 
The large leaves of the svcamore, 

And fluctuate all the still perfume 





And gathering freshlier overhead, 

Kock'd the full-foliaged elms, and 



'The dawn, the dawn,' and 
away ; 
And East and West, with 

breath, 
Mixt their dim lights, lil< 
and death. 
To broaden into boundless day. 



xcvi. 
You say, but with no touch of scorn, 
Sweet-hearted, you, whose light- 
blue eyes 
Are tender over drowning flies, 
You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. 

I know not : one indeed I knew 

In many a subtle question versed, 
Who touch'd a jarring lyre at 



Perple 



make 



in faith, but pure in deeds. 
At last he beat his music out. 
There lives more faith in honest 
doubt. 
Believe me, than in half the creeds. 



He fought his doubts 



gather'! 



He would not make his judgment 



He faced the spectres of the mind 
And laid them : thus he came at length 



Which makes the darkness and 
the light. 
And dwells not in the light alone, 

But in the darkness and the cloud, 
As over Sinai's peaks of old, 
While Israel made their gods of 





Two partners of a married life — 

1 look'd on these and thought of 
thee 



You leave us : you will see the Rhine, 
And those fair hills I sail'd below, 
When I was there with him ; and 
go 

By summer belts of wheat and vine 



These two — they 



vhere 



ith eve on 



Their hearts of old have beat in 

tune. 
Their meetings made December 

June, 
Their every parting was to die. 

Their love has never past away ; 
The days she never can forget 
Are earnest that he loves her yet, 

Whate'er the faithless people say. 

Her life is lone, he sits apart. 

He loves her yet, she will not 

weep, 
T ho' rapt in matters dark and 
deep 
He seems to slight her simple heart. 

He thrids the labyrinth of the mind, 
He reads the secret of the star, 
He seems so near and yet so far. 

He looks so cold: she thinks him 
kind. 



She keeps the gift of years before, 
A wither'd violet is her bliss : 
She knows not what his greatness 
is. 

For that, for all, she loves him more. 

For him she plays, to him she sings 
Of early faith and plighted vows ; 
.She knows but matters of the 




And he, he knows a thousand things. 



he breathed 
th. 
City. All he 



No livelier than the 
gleams 
On Leth • ■ 



his latest 
splendor 
wisp that 
he eves of Death. 



Let her great Danube rolling fair 

Enwind her isles, unmark'd of 

me : 
I have not seen, I will not see 

Vienna ; rather dream that there, 

A treble darkness, Evil haunts 

The birth, the bridal ; friend from 

friend 
Is oftener parted, fathers bend 

Above more graves, a thousand wants 

Gnarr at the heels of men, and pray 
By each cold hearth, and sadness 

flings 
Her shadow on the blaze of 
kings : 
And yet myself have heard him say, 

That not in any mother town 

With statelier progress to and fro 
The double tides of chariots flow 

By park and suburb under brown 

Of lustier leaves ; nor more conti 

He fold me, lives in : 

When all is gay with lamps, and 
loud 
With sport and song, in booth and 





In Mcmoriam. 



Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again. 
So loud with voices of the birds, 
So thick with lowings of the 
herds, 

Day, when I lost the flower of men ; 

Who tremblest thro" thy darkling red 
On yon swoll'n brook that bub- 
bles fast 
By meadows breathing of the 
past. 
And woodlands holy to the dead ; 

Who murmurest in the foliaged eaves 
A song that slights the coming 

care. 
And Autumn laying here and 



there 
A fierv finder i 



thel 



Who wakenest with thy balmy breath 
To myriads on the genial earth. 
Memories of bridal, or of birth. 

And unto myriads more, of death. 

O wheresoever those may be. 

Betwixt the slumber of the poles. 
To-day they count as kindred 
souls; 

They know me not, but mourn with 



I cli' 



c. 
lb the hill : from end to end 
tif all the landscape underneath, 
I find no place that does not 
breathe 
Some gracious memory of my friend ; 

No gray old grange, or lonely fold, 
Or low morass and whispering 

reed. 
Or simple stile from mead to 
mead, 
Or sheepwalk up the windy wold ; 





Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw 

That hears the latest 1 

Nor quarry trench'd 
hill 
And haunted by the wrangling daw ; 

Nor runlet tinkling from the rock ; 
Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves 
To left and right thro' meadowy 
curves. 

That feed the mothers of the flock ; 

But each has pleased a kindred eye. 
And each reflects a kindlier day ; 
And, leaving these, to pass away, 

I think once more he seems to die. 



Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall 
sway, 
The tender blossom flutter down. 
Unloved, that beech will gather 

This maple burn itself away ; 

Unloved, the sun- flower, shining fair, 
Ray round with flames her disk of 

seed, 
And many a rose-carnation feed 

With summer spice the humming air; 

Unloved, bv many a sandv bar. 

The brook shall babble down the 

plain, 
At noon or when the lesser wain 

Is twisting round the polar star ; 

Uncared for, gird the windy grove. 
And flood the haunts of'hern and 
crake ; 



The 



ding 



Till from the garden and the wild 
A fresh association blow. 
And year by year the landscape 
grow 

Familiar to the stranger's child ; 

As year by year the laborer tills 

His wonted glebe, or lops the 
glades ; 




In Alemoriam. 



leave the well-beloved place 
Where first we gazed upon the 

sky ; 
The roofs, that heard our earliest 

Will shelter one of stranger race. 

We go, but ere we go from home, 

As down the garden-walks I 

Two spirits of a diverse love 
Contend for loving masterdom. 

One whispers, ' Here thy boyhood 

sung 
Long since its matin song, and 

heard 
The low love-language of the 



The other answers, ' Yea, but here 
Thy feet have stray'd in after 

With thv lost friend among the 
bower's. 
And this hath made them trebly dear.' 

These two have striven half the day. 
And each prefers his separate 



To le 
They 



my feet are set 
' the pleasant fields and 



e another 
of regret. 




that last night before we n^ent 
From out the doors where I w 

bred, 
I dream'd a vision of the dead. 
Which left mv after-morn content. 




From hidden summits fed vvi 
rills 
A river sliding by the wall. 

The hall with harp and carol rang. 
They sang of what is wise and 

And graceful. In the centre 
stood 
A statue veil'd, to which they sang ; 

And which, tho' veil'd, was known to 
me. 
The shape of him I loved, and 

love 
For ever : then flew in a dove 
And brought 



And when they learnt that I must go 
They wept andwaird,but led the 



And on by many a level mead. 

And 'shadowing bluff that made 

the banks. 
We glided winding under ranks 

Of iris, and the golden reed ; 

And still as vaster grew the shore 
And roll'd the floods in grander 

space, 
The maidens gather'd strength 
and grace 
And presence, lordlier than before ; 

And I myself, who sat apart 

And watch'd them, wa.^'d m 
every limb; 

I felt the thews of Anakim, 
The pulses of a Titan's heart ; 

As one would sing the death of war. 
And one would chant the history 
Of that great race, which is to be, 

And one the shaping of a i 



il the forward-creeping tides 
Began to foam, and we to draw 





In Memoriam. 



From deep to deep, to where we 
eat ship lift her shining sides. 



The man we loved was there on deck 
But thrice as large as man he bent 
To greet us. Up the side I went, 

And fell in silence on his neck. 



' We served thee here,' they said, 
' so long, 
And wilt thou leave us now behind.^' 

So rapt I was, they could not win 
An answer from my lips, but he 
Replying, ' Enter likewise ye 

And go with us:' they enter'd in. 

And while the wind began to sweep 
A music out of sheet and shroud, 
We steer'd her toward a crimson 

That landlike slept along the deep. 

CIV. 

The time draws near the birt'i of 
Christ; 

The moon is hid, the night is ^till ; 

A single church below the hill 
Is pealing, folded in the mist. 

A single peal of bells below. 

That wakens at this hour of rest 
A single murmur in the breast. 

That these are not the bells I know. 

Like strangers' voices here they sound 
In lands where not a memory 

Nor landmark breathes of other 
days, 
But all is new unhallow'd ground. 



To-night ungather'd let us leave 

This laurel, let this holly stand : 
We live within the stranger's 
land. 

And strangely falls our Christmas-eve. 





Our father's dust is left alone 

And silent under other snows : 
There in due time the woodbii 
blows. 

The violet comes, but we are gone. 

No more shall wayward grief abuse 
The genial hour with mask and 

mime : 
For change of place, like growth 
of time, 
Has broke the bond of dying use. 

Let cares that petty shadows cast, 
By which oui^ lives are chiefly 

proved, 
A little spare the night I loved, 

And hold it solemn to the past 



But let no footstep beat the floor, 

Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm ; 
For who would keep an ancient 

Thro' which the spirit breathes no 
more ? 

Be neither song, nor game, nor feast ; 

Nor harp be touch' d, nor flute be 
blown ; 

No dance, no motion, save alone 
What lightens in the lucid east 

Of rising worlds by yonder wood. 

Long sleeps the summer in the 

seed ; 
Run out your measured arcs, and 

The closing cycle rich in good. 



Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky. 
The flying cloud, the frosty light ; 
The year is dying in the night; 

Ring out,' wild bells, and let him die. 



Ring out the old, ring in the 
Ring, happy bells, acre 

The year is going, let him go ; 
Ring out 'the false, ring in the true. 




— 




1 




A 






j 


~ *] 1 *^ 


'^r-\ M^ 




154 /» Alemoriam. 


Ring out the grief that saps the mind. 


Above the wood which grides 






For those that here we see no 


and clangs 


. 






more ; 


Its leafless ribs and iron horns 






eXs Ring out the feud of rich and 


iAj 




poor, 


Together, in the drifts that pass 




Ring in redress to ail mankind. 


To darken on the rolling brine 
That breaks the coast. But fetch 




Ring out a slowly dying cause, 


the wine. 




And ancient forms of party strife ; 


Arrange the board and brim the glass ; 




Ring in the nobler modes of life. 






With sweeter manners, purer laws. 


Bring in great logs and let them lie. 
To make a solid core of heat ; 








Ring out the want, the care, the sin. 


Be cheerful-minded, talk and 




The faithless coldness of the 


treat 
Of all things ev'n as he were by ; 




Ring ou't, ring out my mournful 






rhymes. 


We keep the day. With festal cheer, 




But ring the fuller minstrel in. 


With books and music, surely we 
Will drink to him, whate'er he be, 




Ring out false pride in piace and 


And sing the songs he loved to hear. 




blood, 






The civic slander and the spite ; 


CVIII. 




Ring in the love of truth and right, 






Ring in the common love of good. 


I will not shut me from my kind, 
And, lest I stiffen into stone, 




Ring out old shapes of foul disease ; 


I will not eat my heart alone. 




Ring out the narrowing lust of 


Nor feed with sighs a passing wmd : 




gold; 






Ring out the thousand wars of old, 


What profit lies in barren faith, 




Ring in the thousand years of peace. 


And vacant yearning, tho' with 

might 
To scale the heaven's highest 




Ring in the valiant man and free. 




The larger heart, the kindlier 


height. 




hand; 


Or dive below the wells of Death .? 




Ring out the darkness of the land. 






Ring in the Christ that is to be 


What find I in the highest place. 

But mine own phantom chanting 




CVII. 


hymns .' 




It is the day when he was born. 


And on the depths of death there 




A bitter dav that earlv sank 
Behind a purple frost'v bank 


Th.e refleiTf a human face. 




Of vapor, leaving night forlorn. 


I'll rather take what fruit may be 




The time admits not flowers or leaves 


Of sorrow under human skies : 




To deck the banquet. Fiercely 


•Tis held that sorrow makes us 




flies 


wise. 




jy. The blast of North and East, and 


Whatever wisdom sleep with thee. ,^ 






Makes daggers at the sharpen'd eaves. 


CIX. 








And bristles all the brakes and thorns 


Heart-aftiuence in discursive talk 








To yon hard crescent, as she 


From household fountains never 






1 


hangs 

^ 1 \ I in 1 L^j>^i 1 


dry ; 


] 






■ 1 




In Memoriam. 



ses' walk ; 

Seraphic intellect and force 

To seize and throw the doubts of 
man ; 

Tmpassion'd logic, which outran 
The hearer in its fiery course ; 

High nature amorous of the good, 
But touch'd with no ascetic gloom; 
And passion pure in snowy bloom 

Thro' all the years of April blood ; 

A love of freedom rarely felt, 
Of freedom in her regal seat 
Of England ; not the schoolboy 
heat, 

The blind hysterics of the Celt ; 

And manhood fused with female 
grace 
In such a sort, the child would 

ask'd, in thine, 

, thy face ; 

All these have been, and thee mine 
eyes 
Have look'd on : if they look'd 

My shame is greater who remain. 
Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. 



Thy converse drew us with delight, 
sn of rathe and riper year 



The feeble 
Forgot his 



haunt of fears, 
in thy sight. 



On thee the loyal-hearted hung, 

The proud was half disarm'd of 

pride, 
Nor cared the serpent at thy side 

To flicker with his double tongue. 

The stern were mild when thou wert 
by. 
The flippant put himself to school 
And heard thee, and the brazen 

fool 
; softenVi, and he knew not why ; 





While I, thy nearest, sat apart, 

And felt thy triumph was as mine ; 
KwA loved' them more, that they 
were thine. 

The graceful tact, the Christian art ; 



And, born of love, the vague 
desire 
That spurs an imitative will. 



The churl in spirit, up or down 

.Along the scale of ranks, thro' all. 
To him who grasps a golden ball. 

By blood a king, at heart a clown; 

The churl in spii 



Will let his coltish nature break 
At seasons thro' the gilded pale : 

For who can always act.' but he, 

To whom a thousand memories 

call. 
Not being less but more than all 

The gentleness he seem'd to be. 



he was, and 



Best seem'd the thin 
join'd 

Each ofiice of the social hour 
To noble manners, as the flower 

And native growth of noble mind ; 

Nor ever narrowness or spite, 
Or villain fancy fleeting by, 
Drew in the expression of an eve. 

Where God and Nature met in light ; 

And thus he bore without abuse 

The grand old name of gentle- 
Defamed by every charlatan. 

And soil'd with all ignoble use. 



High wisdom holds my wisdom less. 
That I, who gaze with temperate 




Li Memoriam. 



On glorious insufficiencies, 
Set light by narrower perfectness. 



thou, that fillest all the room 
Of all my love, art reason why 
I seem to cast a careless eye 
On souls, the lesser lords of doom. 

For what wert thou ? some novel 

Sprang up for ever at a touch, 
And hope could never hope too 
much. 
In watching thee from hour to hour, 

Large elements in order brought, 

And tracts of calm from tempest 

made. 
And world-wide fluctuation sway'd 

In vassal tides that follow'd thought. 



'Tis held that sorrow makes us wise ; 

Vet how much wisdom sleeps 
with thee 

Which not alone had guided me. 
But served the seasons that may rise ; 

For can I doubt, who knew thee keen 
In intellect, with force and skill 
To strive, to fashion, to fulfil — 

I doubt not what thou wouldst have 
been : 



A life in civic action warm, 

A soul on highest mis.sion sent, 
A potent voice of Parliament, 

A pillar steadfast in the storm. 

Should licensed boldness gather force. 
Becoming, when the time has 

birth, 
A lever to uplift the earth 

And roll it in another course. 

With thousand shocks that come and 
go. 
With agonies, with energies. 
With overthrowings, and with 

And undulations to and fro. 



Who 




ex IV. 
t Knowledge.' Who 



Against her beauty.' May she 

mix 
With men and prosper ! Who 
shall fix 
Her pillars .' Let her work prevail. 

But on her forehead sits a fire : 

She sets her forward countenance 
And leaps into the future chance, 

Submitting all things to desire. 

Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain — 
She cannot fight the fear of death. 
What is she," cut from love and 
faith, 

But some wild Pallas from the brain 

Of Demons .' fiery-hot to burst 

All barriers in her onward race 
For power. Let her know her 
place ; 

She is the second, not the first. 



ike her mild, 
n; and guide 
oving side by 

the younger child : 



ill be not in 
T footsteps. 



With wisdo 



For she is earthly of the mind. 

But Wisdom heavenly of the .soul. 
O, friend, who camest to thy goal 

So early, leaving me behind, 

I would the great world grew like 
thee, 
Who grewes ' ' 

And knowie 
hour 
In reverence and in charity. 

cxv. 
Now fades the last long streak of 

Now burgeons every maze of 

quick 
About the flowering squares, and 

thick 
Kv ashen roots the violets blow. 





In Mctnoriam. 



The lark becomes a sightless song. 



And milkier 
On winding strej 


ever\ 
m or 


milkv 
distant 


^ail 
sea; 


Where now th 
dives 

The happy 
their sky- 
To build and b 


seaniew pipes, or 
greening gleam, and 


bird 
ood; 


s, that 
that 11 


change 
ve their 



From land to land; and in my breast 
Spring wakens too ; and my 

regret 
Becomes an April violet, 

And buds and blossoms like the rest. 



Is it, then, regret for buried time 

That keenlier in sweet April 

wakes, 
And meets the year, and gives 
and takes 
The colors of the crescent prime .' 

Not all : the songs, the stirring air. 
The life re-orient out of dust, 
Cry thro' the sense to hearten 

In that which made the world so fair. 

Not all regret: the face will shine 
Upon me, while I muse alone ; 
And that dear voice, I once have 



Vet less of sorrow lives in me 

Fr.r days of happy commune 





Less yearning for the friendship 
fled, 
Than some strong bond which is to be. 

cxvil. 

O days and hours, your work is this 
I'o hold me from my proper 

place, 
A little while from his embrace, 

For fuller gain of after bliss : 

That out of distance might ensue 

Desire of nearness doubly sweet ; 
And unto meeting when we meet, 

Delight a hundredfold accrue. 

For every grain of sand that runs, 

And every span of shade that 

steals, 
And every kiss of toothed wheels, 

And all the courses of the suns. 

cxvui. 
Contemplate all this work of Time, 
The giant laboring in his youth ; 
Nor dream of human love and 
truth, 
As dying Nature's earth and lime ; 

But trust that those we call the dead 
Are breathers of an ampler day 
For ever nobler ends. They s'ay. 

The solid earth whereon we tread 

In tracts of fluent heat began. 

And grew to seeming-random 

forins. 
The seeming prey of cyclic storms, 

Till at the last arose the man ; 



\Vh. 



tlirov 



id branch'd from clime 



The herald of a higher race, 
And of himself in higher place. 
If so he type this work of time 

Within hiinself, from more to more ; 
Or, crown'd with attributes of 

woe 
Like glories, move his course, 
and show 
That life is not as idle ore, 





central gloom, 
hot with burning 



To shape and use. Arise and fly 

The reeling Faun, the sensual 

feast ; 
Move upward, working out the 
beast, 
And let the ape and tiger die. 

cxix. 



So quickly, not as one that we 
I come once more ; the ( 
sleeps; 
smell the meadow in the street ; 



A light-blue lane of early dawn. 
And think of early days and thee, 

And bless thee, for thy lips are bland. 
And bright the friendship of thine 

And in my thoughts with scarce 
a sigh 
I take the pressure of thine hand. 

cxx. 
I trust I have not wasted breath : 
I think we are not wholly brain. 
Magnetic mockeries; not in vain. 
Like Paul with beasts, I fought with 
Death ; 

Xot only cunning casts in clay : 

Let Science prove we are, and 

then 
What matters Science unto men, 

At least to me.' I would not stay. 



Let hi 

Hereafter, up from childhoc 
shape 

His action like the greater ape. 
But I was horn to other things. 




Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun 

And ready, thou, to die with hii 
Thou watchest all things ever dii 

And dimmer, and a glory done . 




The I 



d from the wain, 
drawn upon the 



The bo; 

Thou listenest to the closing doo: 



And life is darken'd in the bn 

Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night. 
By thee the world's great work is 

heard 
Beginning, and the wakeful bird ; 

Behind thee comes the greater light : 

The market boat is on the stream. 

And voices hail it from the brink ; 
Thou hear'st the village hammer 
clink. 

And see'st the moving of the team. 

Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name 
For what is one, the first, the last. 
Thou, like my present and my 



c-xxir. 
Oh, wast thou with me, dearest, then. 
While I rose up against my doom. 
And vearn'd to burst the folded 
gloom. 
To bare the eternal Heavens again. 

To feel once more, in placid awe, 
The strong imagination roll 
A sphere of stars about my soul, 

In all her motion one with law; 

If thou wert with me, and the grave 
Divide us not, be with me now. 
And enter in at breast and brow, 

Till all my blood, a fuller wave, 

Be quicken'd with a livelier breath. 
And like an inconsiderate boy. 
•As in the former flash of joy. 

I slip the thoughts of life and death ; 





And all the breeze of Fancy blows, 

And every dew-drop paints a bow, 
The wizard lightnings deeply glow. 

And every thought breaks out a rose. 

CXXIII. 

There rolls the deep where grew the 

O earth, what changes hast thou 

There where the long street roars, 
hath been 
The stillness of the central sea. 



d they flow 



The hills are shadow 
From form to fi 

stands ; 

They melt like mist, the solid 
lands. 
Like clouds they shape themselves 
and go. 

But in iTiy spirit will I dwell, 

And dream my dream, and hold 

For tho' my lips may breathe 
adieu, 
I cannot think the thing farewell. 

c.xxiv. 
That which we dare invoke to bless ; 
Our dearest faith ; our ghastliest 

doubt; 
He, They, One, All ; within, with- 



The rov 



darkness whom 



I found Him not in world or sun. 
Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye ; 
Nor thro' the questions men may 

try, 

The petty cobwebs we have spun : 

If e'er when faith had fall'n asleep, 
I heard a voice ' believe no more ' 
And heard an ever-breaking shore 

That tumbled in the Godless deep; 



A warmth within the breast would 
melt 
The freezing reason's colder part. 





And like a man in wrath the heart 
Stood up and answer'd ' I have felt.' 



Then was I as a child that cries. 
But, crying, knows his father near ; 

And what I am beheld again 

What is, and no man understands ; 
And out of darkness came the 
hands 

That reach thro' nature, moulding men. 

cxxv. 



s my heart would 
often seem'd to 



Vea, tho 
A contradict! 



Yet Hope had never lost her youth : 
She did but look through dimmer 



Or Love bu 
lies. 
Because he felt i 



play'd ' 



.-ith gracious 
1 truth : 



And if the song were full of care. 

He breathed the spirit of the song ; 
And if the words were sweet and 



He set his royal 

Abiding with me 
To seek thee 
And this elec 

A thousand pulse 



Love is and was 
And in his pi 
To hear the I 

Which every hou 



iignet there; 

:ill I .sail 

on the mystic deeps, 
ric force, that keeps 
dancing, fail. 



Lord and King, 
ence I attend 
ngs of my friend, 
lis couriers bring. 



Love is and was my King and Lord, 
And will be, tho' as yet I keep 
Within his court on earth, and 
sleei) 

Encompass'd by his faithful guard, 





In Memoriam. 



And hear at times a sentinel 

Who moves about from place to 

place, 
And whispers to the' worlds of 
space, 
In the deep night, that all is well. 



And all is well, tho' faith and form 
Be sunder" d in the night of fear; 
Well roars the storm to those 
that hear 

A deeper voice across the storm. 

Proclaiming social truth shall spread. 
And justice, ev'n tho' thrice again 
The red fool-fury of the Seine 

Should pile her barricades with dead. 

But ill for him that wears a crown. 
And him, the lazar, in his rags : 
They tremble, the sustaining 
crags ; 

The spires of ice are toppled down, 

And molten up, and roar in flood; 

The fortress crashes from on high. 
The brute earth lightens to the 
sky, 

And the great yEon sinks in blood. 



O'erlook'st 
And smilest, kn 



fires of Hell ; 
spirit, happy 

lult from afar. 



The love that rose on stronger wings, 
Unpalsied when he met with 

Death, 
Is comrade of the lesser faith 

That sees the course of human things. 

No doubt vast eddies in the flood 

Of onward time shall yet be made. 
And throned races may degrade ; 

Yet O ye mysteries of good. 

Wild Hours that fly with Hope and 
Fear, 
If all your office had to do 





With old results that look like 

If this were all your luission here, 

To draw, to sheathe a useless sword. 
To fool the crowd with glorious 

lies. 
To cleave a creed in sects and 

To change the bearing of a word, 

To shift an arbitrary jjower. 

To cramp the student at his desk. 
To make old bareness picturesque 

And tuft with grass a feudal tower ; 

Why then my scorn might well descend 
On you and yours. I see in part 
That all, as in some piece of art. 

Is toil cooperant to an end. 

CX.XI.X. 

Dear friend, far off, my lost desire, 
So far, so near in woe and weal ; 
O loved the most, when most I 
feel 

There is a lower and a higher: 



Known and nnknow 



.Sweet human hand and lips and 

Dear heavenly friend that canst 
not die. 
Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine ; 

Strange friend, past, present, and to 
be; 
Loved deeplier, darklier under- 
stood ; 
Behold, I dream a dream of good, 
And mingle all the world with thee. 

cxx.x. 
Thy voice is on the rolling air; 

I hear thee where the waters run ; 

Thou standest in the rising sun, 
And in the setting thou art fair. 

What art thou then ? I cannot guess ; 
But tho' I seem in star and flower 
To feel thee some diffusive power, 

I do not therefore love the 





In Memoriam. 



2 before ; 
ssion now ; 
'd with God and Nature 



seem to love thee more and 



Far off thou art, but ever nigh ; 
I have thee still, and I rejoi 
I prosper, circled with thy \ 

I shall not lose thee tho' I die'. 

cxxxi. 
O living will that shah etjdure 
When all that seems shall 

shock, 
Rise iu the spiritual rock, 
Flow thro' our deeds and make 



That we may lift from out of dust 
A voice as unto him that hears, 
A cry above the conquer'd years 

To one that with us works, and trust, 

With faith that comes of self-control. 
The truths that never can be 

proved 
Until we close with all we loved. 

And all we flow from, soul in soul. 



O true and tried, so well and long, 
Demand not thou a marriage lay; 
In that it is thy marriage day 

Is music more than any song. 

Nor have I felt so much of bliss 

Since first he told me that he 

loved 
A daughter of our house ; nor 
proved 
Since that dark day a day like this; 



Tl 


o' I since then have number'd 
Some thrice three years: 


A 


went and came. 
Remade the blood and char 
the frame, 
id yet is love not less, but mor 


N 


longer caring to embalm 
In dying songs a dead regret, 





Regret is dead, but love is more 

Than in the summers that are 

flown. 
For I myself with these have 
grown 
To something greater than before ; 

Which makes appear the songs I 
made 
As echoes out of weaker times. 
As half but idle brawling rhymes, 

The sport of random sun and shade. 

But where is she, the bridal flower. 
That must be made a wife ere 

noon ? 
She enters, glowing like the moon 

Of Eden on its bridal bower : 



On 



bends her blissful eyes 
lien on thee ; they meet thy 



Betwixt the palms of paradise. 

O when her life was yet in bud. 

He too foretold the perfect rose. 
For thee she grew, for thee she 



For ( 



[ as fair as good. 



And thou art worthy ; full of power ; 
As gentle; liberal-minded, great, 
Consistent ; wearing all that 
weight 

Of learning lightly like a flower. 



But now set out 


the 


noon 


is near. 




And I must 


•iive 


i\\'a\- 


tlie bride; 




She fears n. 


t, or 


with 


hce beside 


An 


d me behind 


ici, ; 


ill n. 


t tear. 



That shielded all her life f 
harm 
At last must part with her to thee 





In Memoriam. 



Now waiting to be made a wife. 

Her feet, my darling, on the 

dead; 
Their pensive tablets round her 
head, 
And the most living words of life 

Breathed in her ear. The ring is on. 
The 'wilt thou' answer'd, and 

again 
The 'wilt thou' ask'd, till out of 
twain 
Her sweet ' I will ' has made you one. 

vhich shall be 

Mute symbols of a joyful inorn, 
By village eyes as yet unborn ; 
The names are sign'd, and overhead 



Begins the clash and clang that tells 
The joy to eveiy wandering 

breeze'; 
The blind wall rocks, and on the 
trees 
The dead leaf trembles to the bells. 

O happy hour, and happier hours 

Await them. Many a merry face 
.Salutes them — maidens of the 
place. 
That pelt us in the porch with 
flowers. 

O happy hour, behold the bride 

With him to whom her hand I 

gave. 
Tliev leave the jjorch, thev pass 
the grave 
That has to-day its sunny side. 

To-dav the grave is bright for me, 

For them the light of life in- 
creased. 
Who stayed to share the morning 
fe: -t, 
Who rests to-night beside the sea. 

Let all my genial spirits advance 

To meet and greet a whiter sun ; 
My drooping memory will not 
shun 

The foaming grape of eastern France. 





It circles round, and fancy plays, 

And hearts are warm'd and faces 

bloom, 
As drinking health to bride and 
groom 
We wish them store of happy days. 

Nor count me all to blame if I 
Conjecture of a stiller guest. 
Perchance, perchance, among the 
rest. 

And, tho' in silence, wishing joy. 

But they must go, the time draws on, 
And those white-favor'd horses 

wait ; 
They rise, but linger; it is late ; 

Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone. 

A shade falls on us like the dark 

From little cloudlets on the grass, 
But sweeps away as out we p.iss 

To range the woods.'to roam the park. 

Discussing how their courtship grew. 
And talk of others that are wed. 
And how she look'd, and what he 
said. 

And back we come at fall of dew. 

Again the feast, the speech, the glee. 
The shade of passing thought, 

the wealth 
Of words and wit, the double 
health, 
The crowning cup, the three-times- 
three, 

And last the dance ; — till I retire : 

Dumb is that tower which spake 

so loud. 
And high in heaven the stream- 
ing cloud, 
And on the downs a rising fire : 

And rise, O moon, from yonder down, 
Till over down and over dale 
All night the shining vapor sail 

And pass the silent-lighted i 



The white-faced halls, the glancing 
rills, 
And catch at everv mount.iin head. 





Idylls of the King. 



And o'er the friths that brand 
and spread 
Their sleeping silver thro' the hills ; 



And touch 
doors, 
With tender gloom the 

wall ; 
And breaking let the 



hade the bridal 



plend- 
: all the happy shores 



Ey which they rest, and ocean sounds, 
And, star and system rolling 

past, 
A soul shall draw from out the 



Audi 



ike his bein" into bound 



And, moved thro' life of lower phase. 
Result in man, be born and think, 
And act and love, a closer link 

Betwixt us and the crowning race 




Of those that, eve to ei 
On knowledge; ' 

command 
Is Earth and Earth's, and in their 
hand 
Is Nature like an open book ; 

No longer half-akin to brute, 

For all we thought and loved and 

did, 
And hoped, and suffer'd, is but 
seed 
Of what in them is flower and fruit ; 

Whereof the man, that with me trod 
This planet, was a noble type 
Appearing ere the times were ripe. 

That friend of mine who lives in God, 

That God, which ever lives and loves, 
One God, one law, one element, 
And one far-off divine event. 

To which the whole creation moves. 



These to His Memory- 
held them dear, 

Perchance as finding there uncon- 
sciously 

Some image of himself — I dedicate, 

I dedicate, I consecrate with tears — 

These Idylls. 

And indeed He seems to me 
Scarce other than mv king's ideal 

knight. 
• Who reverenced his conscience as 

his king; 
Whose glory was, redressing human 

wrong ; 
Who spake no slander, no. nor 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 

IN TWELVE BOOKS. 
Flos Regum Art/iitrus.'— Joseph of Exet • 

DEDICATION. 

he 




ed one only and w 
;r all whose realms 



ho cla 



Commingled with the gloom of im- 
minent war, 

The shadow of His loss drew like 
eclipse. 

Darkening the world. We have lost 
him : lie is gone : 

We k: lu- him now: all narrow jeal- 



Are 


i'ent; and we see 


him as he 




moved. 




How modest, kindlv, all-accomplish'd. 




wise, 




With 


what sublime repres 


sion of him- 


And 


n what limits, and he 


wtenderlv; 


Not 


swavmg to this fa 
thit ; 


tion or to 


Noti 


laking his high place 
perch 


the lawless 






Ul w 


ng'd ambitions, nor 


a vantage- 





The Coming of Arthur. 



leasure ; but tliio' all this tract 



Before a tli jusniid peering littlenesses, 
111 that fierce light which beats upon a 



And 



ry blot : for where 



Who dares foreshadow for an only son 
A lovelier life, a more unstain'd, 

than his? 
Or how should England dreaming of 

his sons 
Hope more for these than some in- 

Of such a lift, a heart, a mind as thine. 
Thou noble Faliier of her Kings to be. 
Laborious for her people and her 

poor — 
Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler 



Far 


sighted 
Waste 


.ummoner o 


f Wa 




To 


Ijeace- 


strifes and 


rival 


•ies 


Swe 


gleam 


gilded by 


he g 


acio 


Ofl 


etters, dear to Science 


dear 


to A 



and 



Dear to thy land and ours, a Prin 

indeed, 
Beyond all titles, and a household 

name, 
Hereafter, thro' all times, Albert the 

Good. 




Break not, O woman's-heart 
still endure ; 
Break not, for thou art Royal 



Remeir ' 

Which 



ermg all the beauty of that 



10 close beside Thee 
that ye made 
One light together, but has past and 

leaves 
The Crown a lonely splendor. 

May all love. 
His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow 

Thee, 
The love of all Thy sons encompass 



The 



• of all Thv daughters ch( 



The love of all Thv people comfort 

Thee, 
Till God's love set Thee at his side 

again ! 



Leodogran, the King of C: 

Had one fair daughter, and none othei 

child; 
And she was fairest of all flesh on 

earth, 
Guinevere, and in her his one delight. 

For many a petty kinc: ere Arthut 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR 
Hard, 



petty 
this isle, and 



Ruled in this isle, and ever waging 

Each upon other, wasted all the lan.d ; 
And still from time to time the heathen 

host 
Swarm'd overseas, and harried what 

was left. 
And so there grew great tracts of 

wilderness. 
Wherein the beast was ever more and 




But man was less and less, till Arthur 

came. 
For first Aurellus lived and fought 

and died. 
And after him King Uther fought and 

died, 
But either fail'd to inake the kingdoin 



And after these King Arthur fo 
And thro' the puissance of h 

Round, 
Drew all their petty princedoi 

Their king and head, and 
realm, and reign'd. 


a space, 
s Table 

IS under 


made a ^ 


And thus the land of Camel 


ard «as ' 


Thick with wet woods, and 
beast therein. 


many a 





1 




/Tfn 1 4-^ 


%-A .^t^T 


1 




G 


T/ie Coming of Arthur. 165 


And none or few to scare or chase the 


Stood by the castle walls to watch 






beast; 


him pass ; ILL 








feo that wild dog, and wolf and boar 


But since he neither wore on helm or 1 1 






^ and l)ea,- " 


shield «Ai 






Came ni^ht and dav, and rooted in 

the fields, ' 


The golden svmbol of his kinglihood, 
Bnt rode a simple knight among his 






And wallow'd in the gardens of the 


knights. 






King. 


And many of these in richer arms than 






And ev er and anon the wolf would steal 


he, 






The children and devour, but now 


She saw him not, or mark'd not, if 






and then, 


she saw. 






Her own brood lost or dead, lent her 


One among many, tho' his face was 






fierce teat 


bare. 






To human sucklings; and the chil- 


But Arthur, looking downward as he 






dren, housed 


past. 






In her foul den. there at their meat 


Felt the light of her eyes into his life 






would growl. 


Smite on the sudden, yet rode on, and 






And mock their foster-mother on four 


pitch'd 






feet, 


His tents beside the forest. Then he 






Till, straighten'd, they grew up to wolf- 


drave 






like men. 


The heathen; after, slew the beast, 






Worse than the wolves. And King 


and fell'd 






Leodogran 


The forest, letting in the sun, and made 






Groan'd for the Koman legions here 


Broad pathways for the hunter and 






again. 


the knight 






And Cssar's eagle : then his brother 


And so return'd. 






king. 








Urien, assail'd him: last a heathen 


For while he linger'd there. 






horde. 


A doubt that ever smoulder'd in the 






Reddening the sun with smoke and 


hearts 






earth with blood. 


t)f those great Lords and Barons of 






And on the spike that split th; 


his realm 






mother's heart 


Flash'd forth and into war: for most 






Spitting the child, brake on him, till, 


of these. 






amazed 


Colleaguing with a score of petty kings. 
Made heact against him, crying,' ' Who 






He knew not whither he should turn 






for aid. 


is he 
That he should rule us? who hath 






But— for he heard of Arthur newly 


proycn him 






crown'd. 


King Uther's son? for lo ! we look at 






Tho' not without an uproar made by 


him. 






those 


And find nor face nor bearing, limbs 






Who cried, ' He is not Uther's son '— 


nor voice. 






the King 


Are like to those of Uther whom we 






Sent to him, saying, ' Arise, and help 


knew. 






us thou ! 


This is the son of Gorlois, not the 






For here between the man and beast 


K"'g : 








we die.' 


This is the son of Anton, not the King.' '^ 








And Arthur yet had done no deed 


And Arthur, passing thence to 


- 








of arms. 


battle, felt 










But heard the call, and came: and 


Travail, and throes and agonies of the 








t 


Guinevere 


life. 


1 




3 ( 12 I 1 1 i».^ 








The Coming of Arthur. 



Desiring to be juin'd witli Guinevere ; 
And thiiildiig as lie rode, ' Her father 



an and beast 
tliis land of 
iide bv side 



Shall I not lift he 

beasts 
Up to my throne, 

with me ? 

What happiness to reisjn alonelv king, 
Vext— O ye stars tha't shudder over 

O earth that soundest hollow under 

Vext with waste dreams } for savins; I 





be ioin'd 






'^ 


To her that is the fairest undt 


rhea\ 




I see 


n as nothi 


iginthemightvwo 


Id, 


And cannot wil 


mv will, nor ' 


work 


my 




work 








Wholly, nor n 


ake mvself 


in m 


ne 




own real 


n 






Victo 


r and lor 
with her 


d. But were 


I joi 


I'd 


■I'hen 


nnght w 
life, 
reigning ^ 


live togethe 


r as one 


And 


ith one w^ill 


in evf 


rv- 




tMng"" 








Have 


power on this dark 


land 


to 




lighten i 








And 


make it 1 


this dead 


world 


to 



Thereafter — as he speaks who tells 
the tale — 
When Arthur reach'd a field-of-battle 



With 


pitdiM 


javilions of his 


foe, 


the 




world 










Was 


all so c 


lear about 


him, 


that 


he 


The. 


mallest 


rock far o 


1 the 


faintest 




hill. 










And 




high day 


the 


Horn 


"g 



So when the King had set his banner 
broad, 

from either side, with trump- 



ins shrilling 
; their horses 





And now the Barons and the kings 

prevail'd. 
And now the King, as here and there 

that war 
Went swaying ; but the Powers who 

walk the world 
Made lightnings and great thunders 

over him. 
And dazed all eyes, till Arthur by 

main might. 
And mightier of his hands with every 

blow, 
And leading all his knighthood threw 

the kings 
Carados. Urien, Cradlemont of 

Wales, 
Claudias, and Clariance of Northum- 
berland, 
The King Brandagoras of Latangor, 
With Anguisant of Erin, Morga.n- 

ore, 
And Lot of Orkney. Then, before a 

voice 
As dreadful as the shout of one who 

sees 
To one who sins, and deems himseli 

alone 
And all the worldasleep, they swerved. 

and brake 
Flying, and Arthur call'd to stay tlie 

brands 
That hack'd among the flyers„ 'Ho!' 

they yield ! ' 
So like a painted battle the war stood 
Silenced, the living quiet as the dead. 
And in the heart of Arthur jov was 

lord. 
He laugh'd upon his warrior whom he 

loved 
And honor'd most. ' Thou dost not 

doubt me King, 
So well thine arm hath wrought for 

me to-day.' 
' Sir and mv liege,' he cried, ' the fire 

of God 
Descends upon thee in the battle- 
field : 
I know thee for my King ! ' Whereat 

the two, 
For each had warded either in the 

fight, 
Sware on the field of death a death- 





of Arthur. 



said, ' Mar 
nan : 

11, I ti 



word 
.t thee 



And Arthi 

God 
Let chance what 

the death.' 



Then quickly from the foughten 
field he sent 
Ulfiu?, and Brastias, and Bedivere, 
His new-made knights, to King 

Saving, ' If I in anght have served 

thee well. 
Give me thy daughter Guinevere to 

wife.'' 

Whom when he heard, Leodogran 

in heart 
Debating — ' How should I that am a 

king, 
However much he holp me at my need. 
Give inv one daughter saving to a king. 
And a king's son?'— lifted his voice, 

and'call'd 
A hoary man, his chamberlain, to 

He trusted all things, and of him 

required 
His counsel : ' Knowest thou auqht 

of Arthur's birth ? ' 



Then spake 



' Sir King, there be but two i 

that know : 
And each is twice as old as 



chamberlain 
wo old men 
and 
hat ever 



Is .Merlin, the wis< 

served 
King Utlier thro' his magic art : and 



Is Me 
Who 
Befon 
Laid 



's master (so they call him) 
jght him magic; but the 



schoU 
: the 
Bleys, 



bv. 




clov 



and wrote 
All things and whatsoever Merlin d 
In one great annal-book, where aft^ 

years 
Will learn the secret of our .\rthui 

birth.' 




To whom the King 
replied, 
' O friend, had I been holpen half as 

Ijy this King Arthur as by thee to- 
day. 

Then beast and man had had their 
share of me : 

But summon here before us yet once 

Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere.' 

Then, when they came before him, 
the King said, 

' I have seen the cuckoo chased by 
lesser fowl. 

And reason in the chase : but where- 
fore now 

Do these your lords stir up the heat 
of war, 

Some calling Arthur born of Gorlois, 

Others of Anton ? Tell me, ye your- 
selves,' 

Hold ye this Arthur for King Uther's 



And Ulfius and Brastias 

' Av.' 
Then Bedivere, the first 

knights 
Knighted bv Arthur at his 

spake- 
For bold in heart and acl 

was he, 
Whene 



answer'd, 
of all his 
crowning, 
and word 



' Sir, there be many rumors on this 

head : 
For there be those who hate him in 

their hearts. 
Call him baseborn, and since his ways 

are sweet. 
And theirs are bestial, hold him less 

than man : 
And there be those who deem him 

And dream he dropt from heaven : but 

my belief 
In all this matter — so ve care to 





The Coming of Arthur. 



lie prince and warrior Gorlois, he 

that held 
Tintagil castle by the Cornish sea, 
Was wedded with a winsome wife, 

Ygenie : 
And daiigliters had she borne him — 



Lot's wife 


. the 


Queen 


of Orkne^ 


Bel 


icent, 






Hath ever 


l.ke a 


loyal si 


ster cleaved 


To Arthu 


,— bi. 




she had no 


bor 








And Uthei 


cast u 


l)on her 


eves of love 




stanik 


ss wife 


to Gorlois, 


So loathed 


the b 


ight di 


honor of hit 



That Gorlois and King Uther 

war : 
And overthrown was Goric 

slain. 
Then Uther in his wrath ai 

besieged 
Ygerne witliin Tintagil, wh, 



and 
heat 
her 



Seeing the mighty swarm about their 
Left her and fled, and Uther enter'd 
And there was none to call to but 
of the 
a was to wed him in her 
hameful swiftness : after- 
King Uther died 



So, compass'd by the pow 
Enforced rhe ^ 



Not many moon; 

himself, 
Moaning and wailing for 



heir to 



After him, lest the realm should go to 

wrack. 
And that same night, the night of the 

new year, 
By reason of the bitterness and grief 
That ve.\t his mother, all before his 





Of that fierce day were as the lords of 

this, 
Wild beasts, and surely would have 

torn the child 
Piecemeal among them, had thev 

known ; for each 
But sought to rule for his own self 

and hand, 
And many hated Uther for the sake 
Of Gorlois. Wherefore Merlin took 

the child, 
And gave him to Sir Anton, an old 

knight 
And ancient friend of Uther ; and his 



young 



nee, and 



r'd 



Ha 


ve foughten like w 
themselves. 


Idbeas 


s among 


So 


that the realm has 
but now. 


gone t 


:. wrack . 


■fh 


s year, when Merl 
had come) 


n (for 


lis hour 


Brought Arthur forth 


and s 


t him in 




the hall, 






Pn 


vour king," 


s Uthc 


r's heir, 


A hundred voices cried, " Away with 


No 


kings of ours ! a 


son of Gorlois 




he, 






Or 


else the child of 


Anton, 


and no 



king 
Or else baseborn." Yet Merlin thr 

his craft. 
And while the people clamor'd for 

king, 
Had Arthur crown'd ; but after, th 

great lords 
Banded, and so brake out in open wai 

Then while the King debated wit 

himself 
If Arthur were the child of shamefu 

ness, 
Or born the son of Gorlois, afte 

death. 
Or Uther's.son, and born before hi 





The Coming of Arthur. 



Said by these three, there came to 

Cameliard, 
With Gawain and young Modred, her 

Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, 

Bellicent ; 
Whom as he could, not as he would, 

the King 
Made feast for, saying, as they sat at 

' A doubtful throne is ice on sum- 
mer seas. 

Ye come from Arthur's court. Victor 
his men 

Report him ! Yea, but ye — think ye 
this king — 

.So many those that hate him, and so 
strong, 

So few his knights, however brave 
thev be— 

Hath bod'v enow to hold his foemen 
down .' • 

' O King,' she cried, ' and I will tell 
thee : few. 
Few, but all brave, all of one mind 

with him ; 
Frir I was near him wl 



yells 
Of Uther's peerage died, 



le savage 
d Arthur 
\ warriors 
will work 



Crown'd on the dais, am 

cried, 
" Be thou the king, and 

thy will 
Who love thee." Then the King in 

low deep tones, 
.\nd simple words of great authority, 
Bound them by so strait vows to his 

own self. 
That when they rose, knighted from 

kneeling, some 
Were pale as at the passing of a ghost. 
Some flush'd, and others dazed, as one 



vho' 



akes 



Half-blinded at the coming of a light. 

' But when he spake and cheer'd his 

Table Round 
With large, divine, and comfortable 

words, 
Bevond niv tongue to tell thee — I 

beheld 





mage Merlin, 
are but as the 



From eve to eye thro* all their Order 

flash 
A momentary likeness of the King : 
And ere it left their faces, thro' the 

cross 
And tliose around it and the Crucified, 
Down from the casement over Arthur, 

Flame-color, vert and azure, in three 

One falling upon each of three fair 

queens. 
Who stood in silence near his throne, 

the friends 
Of Arthur, gazing on him, tall, with 

bright 
Sweet faces, who will help him at his 

need. 

'And there I 

whose vast 
And hundred wir 

hands 
Of loyal vassals toiling for their liege. 

' And near him stood the Lady of 

the Lake, 
Who knows a subtler magic than his 

own — 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful. 
She gave the King his huge cross- 

hilted sword. 
Whereby to drive the heathen out : 

a mist 
Of incense curl'd about her, and her 

face 
Wellnigh was hidden in the minster 

gloom ; 
But there was heard among the holy 

hymns 
A voice as of the waters, for she 

dwells 
Down in a deep; calm, whatsoever 



the world, and when the 
to walk the waters like 



'There likewise I beheld Excalibu 
Before him at his crowning borne, th( 

sword 




— 












TJ-i H! 


M IF 








170 T/ie Coming 


of Arthur. 


That rose from out the bosom of the 


And there half-heard; the same tli.it 






lake. 


afterward 


. - 








And Arthur row'd across and took 


Struck for the throne, and striking 








tXs it— rich 


found his doom. «^ 






Witli jeuels, elfin Urim, on the hilt, 








Bewiklerin« heart and eye— the blade 


And then the Queen made answer, 






so bright 


' What know I ? 






That men are blinded by it— on one 


For dark mv mother was in eyes and 








hair,' 






Graven in the oldest tongue of all this 


And dark in hair and eves am I ; and 






world, 


dark 






'• Take me," but turn the blade and ye 


Was Gorlois, yea and dark was Uther 






shall see. 


too, 






And written in the speech ye speak 


Wellnigh to blackness ; but this King 






yourself, 


is fair 






"Cast me away!" And sad was 


Beyond the race of Britons and of 






Arthur's face 


men. 






Takins it, but old Merlin counsell'd 


Moreover, always in my mind I hear 






^him. 


A cry from out the dawning of mv 






" Take thou and strike ! the time to 


life. 






cast away 


A mother weeping, and I hear her 






Is yet far-off." So this great brand 


say, 






the king 


" that ye had some brother, pretty 






Took, and by this will beat his foe- 


one, 






men down.' 


To guard thee on the rough ways of 
the world." ■ 






Thereat Leodogran rejoiced, but 








thought 


'Ay,' said the King, 'and hear ye 






To sift his doublings to the last, and 


such a cry ? 






ask'd, 


But when did 'Arthur chance upon 






Fi.xing full eyes of question on her 


thee first .' ' 






' The swallow and the swift are near 


' King ! ' she cried, ' and I will 






akin. 


tell thee true : 






But thon art closer to this noble prince. 


He found me first when yet a little 






Being his own dear sister ; ' and she 


maid: 






said, 


Beaten I had been for a little fault 






' Daughter of Gorlois and Vgerne am 


Whereof I was not guilty ; and out I 
ran 






' -And therefore Arthur's sister .' ' ask'd 


And flung myself down on a bank of 






the King. 


heath, 






■She answer'd, ■ These be secret things,' 


And hated this fair world and all 






and sinn'd 


therein. 






To those two sons to pass, and let 


.And wept, and wish'd that I were 






them be. 


dead ; and he— 






.■\nd Gawain went, and breaking into 


I know not whether of himself he 






song 


came. 






'Y* .Sprang out, and follow'd by his flying 


Or brought by Merlin, who, they say, "X 






11 ._ . . . 


hair 


can waik 








If 


Ran like a colt, and leapt at all he 


Unseen at pleasure — he was at my 












side. 










But Modred laid his ear beside the 


And spake sweet words, and com- 








1 


doors, 

an 1 I 


forted my heart, 






r. 1 U&y 












The Coming of Arthur. 



And dried my tears, being a child 

with me. 
And many a time he came, and ever- 
more 
As I grew greater grew with me ; and 

sad 
At times he seem'd, and sad with him 

was I, 
Stern too at times, and then I loved 

him not, 
But sweet again, and then I loved 

him well. 
And now of late I see him less and 

less. 
But those first days had golden hours 

for me, 
For then I surely thought he would be 

king. 

' But let me tell thee now another 

For Bleys, our Merlin's master, as 

they say. 
Died but of late, and sent his cry to 

To hear him speak before he left his 
life. 

Shrunk like a fairy changeling lay the 
mage ; 

And when I enter'd told nie that him- 
self 

And Merlin ever served about the 
King, 

Uther, before he died; and on the 
night 

When Uther in Tintagil past away 

Moaning and wailing for an heir, the 

Left the still King, and passing forth 

to breathe. 
Then from the castle gateway by the 

chasm 
Descending thro' the dismal night — a 

night 
In which the bounds of heaven and 

earth were lost — 
Beheld, so high upon the dreary deeps 
seem'd in heaven, a ship, the shape 

thereof 
A dragon wing'd, and all from stem 




hining people 



the 




And gone as soon as seen. And then 

the two 
Dropt to the cove, and watch'd the 

great sea fall. 
Wave after wave, eacli mightier than 

the last, 
Till last, a ninth one, gathering half 

the deep 
And full of voices, slowly rose and 

plunged 
Roaring, and all the wave was in a 

name : 
And down the wave and in the flame 

was borne 
A naked babe, and rode to Merlin's 

feet. 
Who stoopt and caught the babe, and 



■led' 



Ihe 



Here is an heir for Uther ! " And the 

fringe 
Of that great breaker, sweeping up 

the strand, 
Lash'd at the wizard as he spake the 

word. 
And all at once all round him rose in 

fire. 
So that the child and he were clothed 

in fire. 
And presently thereafter foUow'd calm, 
Free sky and stars : " And this same 

child," he said, 
" Is he who reigns; nor could I part 

in peace 
Till this were told." And saying this 

the seer 
Went thro' the strait and dreadful pass 

of death, 
Not ever to be question'd any more 
Save on the further side ; but when I 

met 
Merlin, and ask'd him if these things 

were truth — 
The shining dragon and the naked 

child 
Descending in the glory of the seas — 
He laugh'd as is his wont, and an- 

swer'd me 
In riddling triplets of old time, and 

said : 

' " Rain, rain, and sun ! 














APH I hr% 9-1 1 rr 


> 






5 


172 T/te Coming of Arthur. 


1 




An old man's wit mav wander ere he 


The sword rose, the hind fell, the 




- 


die. 


herd was driven, 


. . 






^ ^^ Rai„, rain, and sun ! a rainbow on 


Fire glimpsed; and all the land from 








^ the lea! 


roof and rick, ^ 






And truth is this to me, and that to 


In drifts of smoke before a rolling 






tliee : 


wind, 






And truth or clothed or naked let it be. 


Stream'd to the peak, and mingled 






Rain, sun, and rain ! and the free 


with the haze 






blossom blows: 


And made it thicker ; while the phan- 






Sun, rain, and sun ! and where is he 


tom king 






who knows ? 


Sent out at times a voice ; and here 






From the great deep to the great deep 


or there 






he goes." 


Stood one who pointed toward the 
voice, the rest 






' So Merlin riddling anger'd me ; 


Slew on and burnt, crying, ' No king 






but thou 


of ours, 






Fear not to give this King thine only 


No son of Uther, and no king of ours ; ' 






child, 


Till with a wink his dream was 






Guinevere: so great bards of him 


changed, the haze 






will sing 


Descended, and the solid earth became 






Hereafter ; and dark sayings from of 


As nothing, but the King stood out in 






old 


heaven. 






Ranging and ringing thro' the minds 


Crown'd. And Leodogran awoke, and 






of men, 


sent 






And echo'd by old folk beside their fires 


Ulfius, and Brastias and Bedivere, 






For comfort after their wage-work is 


Back to the court of Arthur answering 






done, 


vea. 






Speak of the King; and Merlin in 








our time 


Then Arthur charged his warrior 






Hath spoken also, not in jest, and 


whom he loved 








And honor'd most. Sir Lancelot, to 






Tho' men mav wound him that he will 


ride forth 






not die. 


And bring the Queen ; — and watch'd 






But pass, again to come ; and then or 


him from the gates : 






now" 


And Lancelot past away among the 






Utterly smite the heathen underfoot, 


flowers. 






Till these and all men hail him for 


(For then was latter April) and re- 






their king.' 


turn 'd 
Among the flowers, in May, with 






She spake and King Leodogran re- 


Guinevere. 






joiced. 


To whom arrived, by Dubric the high 






But musing • Shall I answer yea or 


saint. 






nay ? ' 


Chief of the church in Britain, and 






Doubted, and drowsed, nodded and 


before 






slept, and saw, 


The stateliest of her altar-shrines, the 






Dreaming, a slope of land that ever 


King 






«Y» g""*^*' 


That morn was married, while ni stain- 






1 Field after field, ui? to a height, the 


less white, T 






4 


peak 


The fair beginners of a nobler time. 








1 


Haze-hidden, and thereon a phantom 


And glorying in their vows and him, 










king. 


"his' knights 










Now looming, and now lost ; and on 


Stood round him, and rejoicing in his 








{', 


the slope 








K 


B 1 13 !. 1 1 ijjy! 












' They push'd cs, down the steps, and thro' the court."— /h^? < 




The Coming of Arthur. 



Far shone th^ fields of May thro' open 



The sacred altar blossom'd white with 

May, 
The Sun of May descended on their 

King, 
Thev gazed on all earth's beauty in 

their Queen, 
Roll'd incense, and there past along 

the hymns 
A voice as o'f the waters, while the two 
Sware at the shrine of Christ a death- 
less love : 
And Arthur said, ' Behold, thy doom is 

mine. 
Let chance what will, I love thee to 

the death ! ' 
To whom the Queen replied with 

drooping eyes, 
' King and my lord, I love thee to the 

death ! ' 
And holy Dubric spread his hands and 

■ Reign ye, and live and love, and make 



rid 



Othe 



, and may thy Queen be one with 

thee. 
And all this Order of thy Table Round 
Fulfil the boundless purpose of their 

King!' 

So Dubric said ; but when they left 
the shrine 

Great Lords from Rome before the 
|)ortal stood. 

In scornful stillness gazing as they 
past ; 

Then while they paced a city all on 
fire 

With sun and cloth of gold, the trum- 
pets blew. 

And Arthur's knighthood sang before 
the King : — 

' Blow trumpet, for the world is 

white with May ; 
Blow trumpet, the long night hath 

roll'd away I 
Blow thro' the living world — " Let the 

King reign." 

' Shall Rome or Heathen rule in 





Flash brand and lance, fall battleaxe 

upon helm. 
Fall battlea.xe, and flash brand ! Let 

the King 



' Strike for the King and X\\ 

knights have heard 
That God hath told the King a secret 

word. 
Fall battleaxe, and flash brand ! Let 

the King reign. 

' Blow trumpet ! he will lift us from 

the dust. 
Blow trumpet ! live the strength and 

die the lust I 
Clang battleaxe, and clash brand ! 

Let the King reign. 

' Strike for the King and die ! and 

if thou diest, 
The King is King, and ever wills the 

highest. 
Clang battleaxe, and clash brand ! 

Let the King reign. 



lighty 



' Blow, for our Su 

May! 
Blow, for our Sun is mightier day by 

day ! 
Clang battleaxe, and clash brand ! 

Let the King reign. 

' The King will follow Christ, and 

we the King 
In whom high God hath breathed a 

secret thing. 
Fall battleaxe, and flash brand ! Let 

the King reign.' 

So sang the knisjhthood, moving to 

their hall. 
There at the banquet those great 

Lords from Rome, 
The slowlv-fading mistress of the 

world. 
Strode in, and claim'd their tribu 



But Arthur spake, ' Behold, for th. 

have sworn 
To wage my wars, and 





Gareth and Lynette. 



The old order changeth, yielding 

place to new; 
And we that fight for our fair father 

Christ, 
Seeing that ye be grown too weak and 

old 
To drive the heathen from your 

Roman wall, 
No tribute will we pay : ' so those 

great lords 
Drew back in wrath, and Arthur 

strove with Rome. 




And Arthur and his knighthood for 

a space 
Were all one will, and thro' that 

strength the King 
Drew in the petty princedoms under 

Fought, and in twelve great battles 

overcame 
The heathen hordes and made a realm 

and reign'd. 



THE ROUND TABLE. 



IIC^ 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 

The last tall son of Lot and Belli- 

And tallest, Gareth, in a showerfu 

spring 
Stared at the spate. A slender 

shafted Pine 
Lost footing, fell, and so was whirl'c 



' as a false knight 
Or evil king before my lance if lance 
Were mine to use — O senseless cata- 

Bearing all down in thy precipitancy — 
And yet thou art but swollen with 

cold snows 
And mine is living blood : thou dost 



His will, 
The Maker's, and no 

that know. 
Have strength and 



and I 



Linge 



ther's hall 

ith vacillating obedience, 
rnsona, and kept and coa.\'d and 

whistled to— 
Since the good mother holds me still 

a child ! 
Good mother is bad mother unto me ! 
better; vet no worse 
iild 







, and dash 



Heaven yield her for it, but in me put 

force 
To weary her ears with one continu- 

Until she let me fly discaged to sweep 

To the great \ 

swoop 
Down upon al 

them dead, 
A knight of Arthur, working out his 

will. 
To cleanse the world. Why, Gawain, 

when he came 
With Modred hither in the summer- 
time, 
Ask'd me to tilt with him, the proven 

knight. 
Modred for want of worthier was the 

judge. 
Then I so shook him in the saddle, 

he said, 
" Thou hast half prevail'd against 

me," said so— he — 
Tho' Modred biting his thin lips was 



For he is alway sullen 

And Gareth went, 

round her chaii 

Ask'd, ' Mother, tho 

still the child. 





Gareth and Lynette. 



Sweet mother, do ye love the child ? ' 

She laugh'd, 
' Thou art but a wild-goose to ques- 

' Then, mother, an ye love the child,' 

he said, 
' Being a goose and rather tame than 

wild. 
Hear the child's story.' ' Yea, my 

well-beloved, 
An 'twere but of the goose and golden 

eggs.' 

And Gareth answer'd her with 

kindling eyes, 
' Nay, nay, good mother, but this egg 

of mine 
Was finer gold than any goose can 

lay; 
For this an Eagle, a royal Eagle, laid 
Almost beyond eye-reach, on such a 

palm 
As glitters gilded in thy Book of 

Hours. 
And there was ever haunting round 

the palm 
A lusty youth, but poor, who often 

saw 
The splendor sparkling from aloft, 

and thought 
"An I could climb and lay my hand 

upon it, 
Then were I wealthier than a leash of 

kings." 
But ever when he reach'd a hand to 

climb. 
One, that had loved him from his 

childhood, caught 
And stay'd him, " Climb not lest 

thou break thy neck, 
I charge thee by my love," and so the 

boy. 
Sweet mother, neither clomb, nor 

brake his neck. 
But brake his very heart in pinin^' for 

And past away.' 

To whom the mother said, 
' True love, sweet son, had risk'd him- 
self and climb'd, 
And handed down the golden treasure 





And Gareth answer'd her with kind- 
ling eyes, 
'Gold? said I gold.' — ay then, why 

he, or she. 
Or whosoe'er it was, or half the world 
Had ventured — had the thing I spake 

of been 
Mere gold— but this was a41 of that 

true steel. 
Whereof they forged the brand 

E.xcalibur, 
And lightnings play'd about it in the 

storm, 
And all the little fowl were flurried at it. 
And there were cries and clashings in 

the nest. 
That sent him from his senses : let 

me go.' 



Then Bellicent ben 

and said. 
Hast thou no pity u| 



I herself 

ly loneli- 
ness .' 

Lo, where thy father Lot beside the 
hearth 

Lies like a log, and all but sraoulder'd 

hen traitor to the 
him in the Barons' 
And Arthur gave him back his terri- 
droopt, and now 



For ever since 

King 
He fought again 



His age hath 

lies there 

A yet-warm corpse, and yet unburi- 
able. 

No more ; nor sees, nor hears, nor 
speaks, nor knows. 

And both thy brethren are in Arthur's 
hall, 

Albeit neither loved with that full love 

I feel for thee, nor worthy such a love : 

Stay therefore thou; red berries 
charm the bird, 

And thee, mine innocent, the jousts. 

Who never kn'ewest finger-ache, 

pang 
Of wrench'd or broken limb — an ofte 





Gareth and' Lyncfte. 



Frights to my heart ; but stay : follow 

the deer 
By these tall firs and our fast-falling 

burns; 
So make thy manhood mightier day 

by day ; 
Sweet is the chase : and I will seek 

thee out 
Some comfortable bride and fair, to 

grace 
Thy climbing life, and cherish my 

prone year. 
Till falling into Lot's forgetfulness 
I know not thee, myself, nor anything. 
Stay, my best son ! ye are yet more 

boy than man.' 

Then Gareth, ' An ye hold me yet 

for child, 
Hear yet once more the story of the 

child. 
For, mother, there was once a King, 

like ours. 
The prince his heir, when tall and 

marriageable, 
Ask'd for a bride ; and thereupon the 

King 
Set two before him. One was fair, 

strong, arm'd — 
But to be won by force — and many 

Desired her ; one, good lack, no man 

desired. 
And these were the conditions of the 

King: 
That save he won the first bv force, he 

needs 
Must wed that other, whom no man 

desired, 
A red-faced bride who knew herself so 

That evermore she long'd to hide her- 
self. 
Nor fronted man or woman, eye to 

eye- 
Yea — some she cleaved to, but they 

died of her. 
And one — they call'd her Fame ; and 

one, — (J Mother, 
How can ve keep me tether'd to you — 





Follow the deer? 

the King, 
Live pure, si)eak 

follow the Kii 
E;ise, wherefore born 



To whom the mother said. 
' Sweet son, for there be many who 

deem him not. 
Or will not deem him, wholly proven 

King— 
Albeit in mine own heart I knew him 

King, 
When I was frequent with him in my 

youth, 
And heard him Kingly speak, and 

doubted him 
No more than he, himself; but ftlt 

him mine. 
Of closest kin to me: yet— wilt thou 

leave 
Thine easeful biding here, and risk 

thine all, 
Life, limbs, for one that is not proven 

Kmg? 
Stay, till the cloud that settles round 

his birth 
Hath lifted but a little. Stay, sweet 



And Gareth ai 
an hour. 
So that ye yield 



•'d quickly, • Not 
I will walk thro' 
our full leave to 
ept the dust of 



Mother, to gain ii 

go- 
Not proven, who 

ruin'd Rome 
From off the threshold of the realm, 

and crush'd 
The Idolaters, and made the people 



So when the Queen, who long had 
sought in vain 
To break him from the inte 

which he grew. 
Found her son's will unvvaveringl 





Gareth and Lynette. 



Who walks thro' fire will hardly heed 

the smoke. 
Ay, go then, an ye must : only one 

Before thou ask the King to make 

thee knight, 
Of thine obedience and thy love to 



Thv 



ther,— I demand.' 



And Gareth cried, 
' A hard one, or a hundred, so I go. 
Nay — quick ! the proof to prove me to 
the quick!' 

But slowlv spake the mother looking 
at him, 

' Prince, thou shalt go disguised to 
Arthur's hall. 

And hire thyself to serve for meats 
and drinks 

Among the scullions and the kitchen- 
knaves. 

And those that hand the dish across 
the bar. 

Nor shalt thou tell thy name to any- 

And thou shalt serve a twelvemonth 
, and a day.' 

For so the Queen believed that 
when her son 
Beheld his only way to glory lead 
Low down thro' villain kitchen- 

> too princely- 
proud 

To pass thereby; so should he rest 
with her, 

Closed in her castle from the sound 
of arms. 

Gareth, then 

hall see the jousts. Thy son 
11 I, 

y mother, must 



Silent awhile 
replied, 
'The thrall in f 

And I 



And since thou art 

obey. 

I therefore yield me freely to thy will ; 

hence will I, disguised, and hire 

myself 




To serve with scullions and with 

kitchen-knaves ; 
Nor tell my name to any — no, not the 

King.' 

Gareth awhile linger'd. The moth- 
er's eye 

Full of the wistful fear that he would go. 

And turning toward him wheresoe'er 
he turn'd, 

Perplext his outward purpose, till an 
hour. 

When waken'd by the wind which 
with full voice 

Swept bellowing thro' the darkness on 
to dawn. 

He rose, and out of slumber calling 

That still had tended on him from his 

birth. 
Before the wakeful mother heard iiim, 



The three were 

the soil. 
Southward they set 

birds made 
Melody on branch. 



ke tillers of 
faces. The 
slody in mid 
e quicken'd 



The damp hill-slope: 

into green. 
And the live green had kindled into 

flowers, 
For it was past the time of Easterday. 

So, when their feet were planted on 

the plain 
That broaden'd toward the base of 

Camelot, 
Far off they saw the silver-misty morn 
Rolling her smoke about the Royal 

That rose between the forest and the 
field. 

At times the summit of the high city 
flash'd; 

At times the spires and turrets half- 
way down 

Prick'd thro' the mist ; at times the 



Anon, the whole fai: 





Gareth and Lynette. 



Then those who went with Gareth 
amazed, 
One crying, ' Let us go no further, lord. 
Here is a city of Enchanters, built 
By fairy Kings.' The second echo'd 

' Lord, we have heard from our wise 

To Northward, that this King is not 
the King, 

But only changeling out of Fairyland, 

Who drave the heathen hence by 
sorcery 

And Merlin's glamour.' Then the first 
again, 

' Lord, there is no such city any- 
where, 

But all a vision.' 

Gareth answer'd them 
With laughter, swearing he had gla- 

hi his own blood, his princedom, 

youth and hopes, 
To plunge old Merlin in the Arabian 

So push'd them all unwilling toward 

the gate. 
And there was no gate like it under 



vhich 
mg wave. 



For barefoot on the ke 

was lined 
And rijipled like an ever 
The L.idy of the Lake stood 

dress 
Wept from her sides as water flowing 

But like the cross her great and goodly 

Stretch'd under all the cornice and 

upheld: 
And drops of water fell from either 

hand ; 
And down from one a sword was hung. 



ler worn with wind and 
breast floated the sacred 
left of her, and 




And o' 

fish; 
And in the space 

right, 
Were Arthur's wars in weird de 

done, 




New things and old co- 



Were nothing, so i 

men 

Were giddy gazing there ; and overall 
High on the top were those three 

Queens, the friends 
Of Arthur, who should help him at his 

need. 

Then those with Gareth for so long 
a space 
Stared at the figures, that at last it 

seem'd 
The dragon-boughts and elvish em- 

blemings 
Began to move, seethe, twine and 

curl : they call'd 
To Gareth, ' Lord, the gateway is alive. 

And Gareth likewise on them fixt 
his eyes 
So long, that ev'n to him they seem'd 

to move. 
Out of the city a blast of music jieal'd. 
Back from the gate started the three, 

to whom 
From out thereunder came an ancient 

man. 
Lone-bearded, savins, ' Who be ve, mv 



Then Gareth, ' We be 
soil. 
Who leaving share in fur 



s of the 
come to 

y 



The glories of our King: but thi 

men, 
(Your citv moved so weirdly in the 

mist') 
Doubt if the King be Kmg at all, or 

From Fairyland ; and whether this be 

built 
By magic, and bv fairy Kings and 

Queens ; 
Or whether there be any city at all. 
Or all a vision : and this music now 
Hath scared them both, but tell thou 

these the truth.' 

Then that old Seer made answer 
playing on him 




Gareth and Lynette 



And saying, ' Son. I have seen the 

good ship sail 
Keel upward, and mast downward, in 

the heavens, 
And solid turrets topsy-turvy in air : 
And here is truth ; but an it please 

thee not. 
Take thou the truth as thou hast told 

it me. 
For truly as thou sayest, a Fairy 

King 
And Fairy Queens have built the city, 

They came from out a sacred moun- 
tain-cleft 

Toward the sunrise, each with harp in 
hand. 

And built it to the music of their 
harps. 

And, as thou sayest, it is enchanted, 
son. 

For there is nothing in it as it seems 

.Saving the King ; tho' some there be 
that hold 

The King a shadow, and the city real : 

Yet take thou heed of him, for, so thou 



To thee fair-spoken 
' Kno 



But the .Seer replied, 
not then the Riddling of the 



Bards 

" Confusion, and illusion, and relation. 
Elusion, and occasion, and evasion ".' 
I mock thee not but as thou mockest 

me, 
And all that see thee, for thou art not 

who 
Thou seemest, but I know thee who 

thou art. 
And now thou goest up to mock the 

King, 
Who cannot brook the shadow of anv 



lie.' 



then wilt thou 
tments, for the 
T vows, as is a 



Beiieath this archwa 

become 
A thrall to his ench 

King 
Will bind thee by si 

shame 
A man should not be bound by, vet the 

which 
No man can keep; but, so thou dread 

to swear, 
Pass not beneath this gatewav, but 

abide 
Without, among the cattle of the field. 
For an ye heard a music, like enow 
( They are building still, seeing the city 



Anger'd, ' Old Master, reverence thine 

own beard 
That looks as white as utter truth, and 

seems 
Wellnigh as long as thou art statured 




nocke 



end 



"g 



Tur 



d to the right, and past along the 
plain ; 

Whom Gareth looking after said, ' My 
men, 

Our one white lie sits like a little ghost 

Here on the threshold of our enter- 
prise. 

Let love be blamed for it, not she, 
nor I : 

Well, we will make amends.' 

With all good cheer 

He spake and laugh'd, then enter'd 
with his twain 

Camelot, a city of shadowy palaces 

And stately, rich in emblem and the 
work 

Of ancient kings who did their days in 
stone ; 

Which Merlin's hand, the Mage at 
Arthur's court. 

Knowing all arts, had touch'd, and 
everywhere 

At Arthur's ordinance, tipt with lessen- 
ing peak 

And pinnacle, and had made it spire 

And ever and anon a knight would 

pass 
Outward, or inward to the hall : his 





Gareth and Lynette. 



Clash'd ; and the sound was good to 

Gareth's ear. 
And out of bovver and casement shyly 

glanced 
Eyes ot: pure women, wholesome stars 

of love ; 
And all about a healthful people stept 
As in the presence of a gracious king. 

Then into hall Gareth ascending 
heard 

A voice, the voice of Arthur, and be- 
held 

Far over heads in that lone-vaulted 
hall 

The splendor of the presence of the 

Throned, and delivering doom — and 

look'd no more — 
l!ut felt his young heart hammering in 

his ears. 
And thought, ' For this half-shadow of 

The truthful King will doom me when 

I speak.' 
Yet pressing on, tho' all in fear to find 
Sir Gawain or Sir Modred, saw nor 

one 
Nor other, but in all the listening eyes 
Of those tall knights, that ranged 

about the throne. 
Clear honor shining like the dewy 



Of 


daw 


1, and faith in 


their gr 




K 


ng, with pure 




Affection 


, and the light of 


victory, 


And 


glo 


rv gain'd, and e 


vermore 



gam. 

Then came a widow crying to the 
King, 
A boon. Sir King ! Thy father, 

Uther, reft 
From mv dead lord a field with vio- 



For howsoe'er at first he i: 

gold. 
Vet, for the field was pleasan 

eyes, 
We yielded not ; and then he 



jffer'd 




ft us 
gold nor 




Said Arthur, ' Whether 

gold or field ? ' 
To whom the woman weeping, Nay 

my lord, 
The field was pleasant in mv husband's 

eye.' 

And Arthur, ' Have thy pleasant 

field again, 
And thrice the gold for Uther's use 

thereof, 
According to the years. No boon is 

here. 
But justice, so thy say be proven true. 
Accursed, who from the wrongs his 

father did 
Would shape himself a right ! ' 

And while she past, 
Came yet another widow crying to 

'A boon. Sir King! Thine enemy. 

King, am I. 
With thine own hand thou slewest my 

dear lord, 
A knight of Uther in the Barons' 

When Lot and many another rose and 

fought 
Against thee, saying thou wert basely 

born. 
I held with these, and loathe to ask 

thee aught. 
Yet lo 1 my husband's brother had my 

Thrall'd in his castle, and hath 

starved him dead ; 
And standeth seized of that inherit- 
ance 
Which thou that slewest the sire hast 

left the son. 
So tho' I scarce can ask it thee for 

hate. 
Grant me some knight to do the battle 

for me. 
Kill the foul thief, and wreak me for 

my son.' 
Then strode a good knight forward, 

crying to him, 
* A boon. Sir King ! I am her kinsman. 





Gareth and Lynette. 



schal, 



Then came Sir Kay, the 

and cried, 
'A boon. Sir King! ev'n that thou 

grant her none. 
This railer, that hath mock'd thee in 

full hail- 
None ; or the wholesome boon of gyve 

and gag.' 

But Arthur, ' We sit King, to help 

the wrong'd 
Thro' all our realm. The woman 

loves her lord. 
Peace to thee, woman, with thy loves 

and hates ! 
The kings of old had doom'd thee to 

the flames, 
.^urelius F^nrys would have scourged 

thee dead, 
And Uther slit thy tongue: but get 

thee hence — 
Lest that rough humor of the kings 

of old 
Return upon me ! Thou that art her 

kin. 
Go lil 



lay 1 


im 


ow an 


d slay 


here, 


that 


I may judge 


the j. 


stice 


of the 


King : 



bring hii 



Accordinf^ 

Then, be he guilty, by that deathless 

Who lived and died for men, the man 
shall die.' 

Then came in hall the messenger of 
Mark, 
A name of evil savor in the land, 
The Cornish king. In either hand he 

What dazzled all, and shone far-off as 

shines 
A field of charlock in the sudden 

sun 
Between two showers, a cloth of palest 

gold. 
Which down he laid before the throne, 

and knelt, 
Delivering, that his lord, the vassal 

king. 
Was ev'n upon his way to Camelot ; 
For having heard that Arthur of his 





Had made his goodly cousin, Tr 

knight, 
And, for himself was of the greater 

Being a king, he trusted his liege-lord 
Would yield him this large honor all 

the more ; 
So pray'd him well to accept this cloth 

of gold. 
In token of true heart and fealty. 

Then Arthur cried to rend the 

cloth, to rend 
In pieces, and so cast it on the hearth. 
An oak-tree smoulder'd there. ' The 

goodly knight ! 
What ! shall the shield of Mark stand 

among these ?' 
For, midway down the side of that 

long hall 
A stately pile, — whereof along the 

front. 
Some blazon'd, some but carven, and 

some blank, 
There ran a treble range of stony 

shields,— 
Rose, and high-arching overbrow'd 

the hearth. 
And under every shield a knight was 

named : 
For this was Arthur's custom in his 

hall; 
When some good knight had done one 

noble deed. 
If is arms were carven only; but if 

His arms were blazon'd also; but if 

The shield was blank and bare with- 
out a sign 
Saving the name beneath ; and Gareth 

The shield of Gawain blazon'd rich 

' ^ ana ISrlgfir;-- 
And Modred's blank as death ; and 

Arthur cried' 
To rend the cfoth and cast it on the 
hearth. 



' More like are we to reave 
his crown 
Than make him knight becau 





Gareth and Lynette. 



The kings we found, ye know we stay'd 

hands 
From war among themselves, but left 

them kings ; 
Of whom were any bounteous, merci- 
ful, 
Trutli-speaking, brave, good livers, 

them we enroll'd 
Among us, and they sit within our hall. 
But Mark hath tarnish'd the great 

name of king. 
As Mark would sully the low state of 

churl: 
And, seeing he hath sent us cloth of 

gold. 
Return, and meet, and hold him from 

our eyes, 
Lest we should lap him up in cloth of 

lead. 
Silenced for ever — craven — a man of 

plots, 
Craft, poisonous counsels, wayside 

ambushings — 
No fault of thine : let Kay the seneschal 
Look to thy wants, and send thee 

satisfied — 
Accursed, who strikes nor lets the 

hand be seen ! ' 

And many another suppliant crying 

With noise of ravage wrought by beast 

And evermore a knight would ride 
away. 



both hands 



Appi 



the shoulders of the 



nach'd between them toward th< 
King, and ask'd, 
' A boon. Sir King (his voice was al 

ashamed). 
For see ye not how weak and hunger 



these ? grant me 
>ng thy 




d d 



kitchen-knaves 
A twelvemonth and a day, nor seek 
mv name, 
lereafter I will fight.' 



To him the King, 
'A goodly youth and worth a goodlier 

boon ! 
But so thiiu wilt no goodlier, then 

must Kav, 
The master of the meats and drinks, 

be thine.' 




He rose and pas 



the 



.ay, a man 



Wan-sallow as the plant that feels 

self 
Root-bitten bv while lichen. 



This fellow hath broken from some 

Abbey, where, 
God wot, he had not beef and brewis 

However that might chance! but an 

he work, 
Like any pigeon will I cram his crop. 
And sleeker shall he shine than any 

hog.' 

Then Lancelot standing near, ' Sir 

Seneschal, 
Sleuth-hound thou knowest, and gray, 

and all the hounds; 
A horse thou knowest, a man thou 

dost not know : 
Broad brows and fair, a fluent hair 

High nose, a nostril large and fine, 

and hands 
Large, fair and fine ! — Some young 

lad's mystery — 
But, or from sheepcot or king's hall, 

the bov 
Is noble-natured. Treat him with all 

grace. 
Lest he should come to shame thy 

judging of him.' 



Then Kay, 'What 
of mystery .' 

Think ve this fellow 
King's dish ? 

Nay, for he spake 



Tut.anthelad 

For horse and 

forsooth 





Gareth and Lynette. 



ands ? but see 
celot. 



fineness, L; 
some fine day 
Undo thee not— and leave my 



So Gareth all for glory underwent 
The siiotv yoke of kitchen- vassal- 
Ate with young lads his portion by the 

And couch'd at night with grimy 
kitchen-knaves. 

And Lancelot ever spake him pleas- 
antly, 

But Kay the seneschal, who loved hnn 



of the hearth, 
water, or 



Would hustle 

labor hin 
Bevond his cor 

and set 
To turn the broach, dt 

hew wood. 
Or grosser tasks ; and Gareth bow'd 

himself 
With all obedience to the King, and 

wrought 
All kind of service with a noble ease 
That graced the lowliest act in doing 

it. 
And when the thralls had talk among 

And one would praise the love that 

linkt the King 
.And Lancelot — how the King had 

saved his life 
In battle twice, and Lancelot once the 



Lancelot 



the fir 



Tourna- 
; battle- 



Kut Arthur mightiest 

field— 
Gareth was glad. Or if some other 

told, 
How once the wandering forester at 

dawn, 
Far over the blue tarns and hazy seas. 
On Caer-Eryri's highest found the 

King, 
A naked babe, of whom the Prophet 

' He passes to the Isle Avilion, 





He passes and is 

die' — 
Gareth was glad. 

were foul, 
Then would he whistle rapid as any 

lark, 
Or carol some old roundelay, and so 

loud 
That first they mock'd, but, after, 

reverenced him. 
Or Gareth telling some prodigious tale 
Of knights, who sliced a red life- 
bubbling way 
Thro' twenty folds of twisted dragon, 

held 
All in a gap-mouth'd circle his good 

Lying or sitting round him, idle hands, 
Charm'd ; till Sir Kay, the seneschal, 

would come 
Blustering upon them, like a sudden 

wind 
Among dead leaves, and drive them 

. all apart. 
Or when the thralls had sport among 

themselves, > 

So there were anv trial of mastery, 
He, by two yards in casting bar or 

stone 
Was counted best; and if there 

chanced a joust, 
So that Sir Kay nodded him leave to 

go, 
Would hurry thither, and when he 

saw the knights 
Clash like the coming and retiring 

wave, 
And the spear spring, and good horse 

reel, the boy 
Was half l)eyond himself for ecstasy. 

So for a month he wrought anions; 
the thralls; 

But in the weeks that foUow'd, the 
good r)iieen, 

Repentant of the word she made him 
swear. 

And saddening in her childless cas- 
tle, sent, 

Between the in-crescent and de- 
crescent moon. 

Arms for her son, and loosed him 
from his vow. 






A 


184 Gareth and Lynette. 




rhis, Gareth hearing from a squire 


Of whom ye gave me to, the Seneschal, 






of Lot 


No mellow master of the meats and 








With whom he used to play at tour- 


drinks ! 






c. 


9 ney once, 


And as for love, God wot, I love not *^ 








When both were children, and in 


yet. 








lonely haunts 


But love I shall, God willing.' 








Would scratch a ragged oval on the 








sand, 


And the King— 








And each at either dash from either 


' Make thee my knight in secret .' yea, 








end— 


but he, 








Sliame never made girl redder than 


Our noblest brother, and our truest 








Gareth joy. 


man. 








He laugh'd ; he sprang. ' Out of the 


And one with me in all, he needs 








smoke, at once 


must know.' 








I leap from Satan's foot to Peter's 










knee — 


' Let Lancelot know, my King, let 








These news be mine, none other's— 


Lancelot know. 








nay, the King's— 


Thy noblest and thy truest ! ' 








Descend into the city:' whereon he 










sought 


And the King— 








The King alone, and found, and told 


' But wherefore would ye men should 








him all. 


wonder at you.? 
Nay, rather for the sake of me, their 








' I have stagger'd thy strong G;^wain 


King, 








in a tilt' 


And the deed's sake my knighthood 








For pastime ; yea, he said it : joust 


do the deed, 








can I. 


Than to be noised of." 








Make me thy knight— in secret ! let 










my name 


Merrily Gareth ask'd. 




1 




lie hidd'n, and give me the first quest. 


' Have I not earn'd my cake in baking 








I spring 


of it.' 




1 




Like flame from ashes.' 


Let be my name until I make my 
name ! 




1 




Here the King's calm eye 
Fell on, and check'd, and made him 


My deeds will speak: it is but for a 








dav.' 








flush, and bow 


So with a kindly hand on Gareth's 








Lowly, to kiss his hand, who answer'd 


arm 








'him, 


Smiled the great King, and haU-unwill- 








' Son, the good mother let me know 


ingly 




' 




thee here. 


Loving his lusty youthhood yielded to 




1 




.\nd sent her wish that I would yield 


him. 








thee thine. 


Then, after summoning Lancelot 




i 




Make thee my knight > my knights are 


privily. 




1 




sworn to vows 


' I have given him the first quest : he 




i 




Of utter hardihood, utter gentleness, 


is not proven. 




i 




And, loving, utter faithfulness in love. 


Look therefore when he calls for this 




1 




.\nd uttermost obedience to the King.' 


in h.all, -^ 
Thou get to horse and follow him far 
















Then Gareth, lightly springing from 


away. 








his knees. 


Cover the lions on iliy shield, and 








' My Kine, for hardihood I can prom- 










ise"thee. 


Far as thou mayest, he be nor ta'eu 






K 


For uttei -most obedience make dem.ind 


, .-J 




3^4 Ul i^r \ \isy 


■ 1 



Garcth and Lynetie. 



Then that same dav there past into 
the hall 

A damsel of high lineage, and a brow 

May-blossom, and a cheek o£ apple- 
biossom, 

Ha\vk-L-yes ; and lightly was her slen- 
der nose 

Tip-tilled like the petal of a flower; 

She into hall past with her page and 



' O King, for thou ha 
foe without. 



the 



See to the foe within ! bridge, ford, 

beset 
By bandits, everyone that owns a tower 
The Lord for half a league. Why sit 

ye there ? 
Rest would I not. Sir King, an I were 

king. 
Till ev'n the lonest hold were all as 

From cursed bloodshed, as thine altar- 
cloth 

From that best blood it is a sin to 
spill.' 

' Comfort thyself,' said Arthur, ' I 

nor mine 
Rest : so my knighthood keep the 

vows they swore. 
The wastest moorland of our realm 

shall be 
Safe, damsel, as the centre of this hall. 
What is thy name ? thy need ? ' 

' My name ? ' she said— 
' Lynette mv name ; noble ; my need, a 

knight 
To combat for my sister, Lyonors, 
A lady of high lineage, of great lands. 
And comely, yea, and comelier than 



She 



my; 



ielf. 



Castle Perilous : a river 

<uns in three loops about her living- 
place ; 

Vnd o'er it are three passings, and 
three knights 

)efend the passings, brethren, and a 
fourth 

\x\& of that four the mightiest, holds 




In her own castle, and so besieges her 




To break her will, and make her wed 
with him : 

And but delays his purport till thou 
send 

To do the battle with him, thy chief 
man 

Sir Lancelot whom he trusts to over- 
throw, 

Then wed, with glory: but she will 
not wed 

Save whom she loveth, or a holy life. 

Now therefore have I come for Lance- 
lot.' 

Then Arthur mindful of Sir Gareth 

ask'd, 
' Damsel, ye know this Order lives to 

crush 
All wrongers of the Realm. But say, 

these four. 
Who be they ? What the fashion of the 

men ? ' 



rhey be of foolish 



. O Sir 



'They be 

King 

The fashion of that old knight- 
errantry 
Who ride abroad, and do but what 

they will ; 
Courteous or bestial from the moment, 

such 
As have nor law ii.ir king; and three 

of these 
Proud in their fantasy call themselves 

the Day, 
Morning-Star, and Noon-Sun, and 

Evening-Star, 
Being strong fools ; and never a whit 

more wise 
The fourth, who alway rideth arm'd in 

black, 
A huge man-beast of boundless sav- 
agery. 
He names himself the Night and 

oftener Death, 
And wears a helmet mounted with a 

skull. 
And bears a skeleton figured on his 

arms. 
To show that who may slay or scape 

the three. 
Slain bv himself, shall enter endless 

night. 





Gareth a»d Lynette. 



And all these four be fools, but mighty 
And therefore am I come for Lance- 



Hereat Sir Gareth call'd from where 
he rose, 

A head with kindling eyes above the 
throng, 

' A boon, Sir King — this quest ! ' then 
— for he mark'd 

Kay near him groaning like a wounded 
bull- 

' Yea, King, thou knowest thy kitchen- 
knave am I, 

And mighty thro' thy meats^nd drinks 



And 



topple 



hundred 
Arthur 



Thy promise. King,' 

glancing at him, 
Brought down a momentary brow. 

' Rough, sudden. 
And pardonable, worthy to be 

knight- 
Go therefore,' and all hearers were 

amazed. 

But on the damsel's forehead shame, 
pride, wrath 
Slew the May-white : she lifted either 

' Fie on thee. King ! I ask'd for thy 

chief knight, 
And thou hast given me but a kitchen- 
knave.' 
Then ere a man in hall could stay her, 

turn'd. 
Fled down the lane of access to the 

King, 
Took horse, descended the slope 

street, and past 
The weird white gate, and paused 

without, beside 
The field of tourney, murmuring 

' kitchen-knave.' 

Now two great entries open'd from 
the hall. 
At one end one, that gave upon a 

Of level pavement where the King 





At sunrise, gazing over plain and 

And down from this a lordly stairway 

sloped 
Till lost in blowing trees and tops of 

towers ; 
And out bv this main doorwav past 

the King. 
But one was counter to the hearth, 

and rose 
High that the highest-crested helm 

could ride 
Therethro' nor graze : and by this 

entry fled 
The damsel in her wrath, and on to 

this 
Sir Gareth strode, at 

the door 
King Arthur's gift, the 



aw without 
th of half a 
ind near it 



Thf 



rhorse of the best, 
stood 
wo that out of north had foUow'd 



This bare a maiden shield, a casque ; 

that held 
The horse, the spear ; whereat Sir 

Gareth loosed 
A cloak that dropt from collar-bone 

to heel, 
A cloth of roughest web, and cast it 

down, 
And from it like a fuel-smother'd fire, 
That lookt half-dead, brake bright, 

and flash'd as those 
Dull-coated things, that making slide 

apart 
Their dusk wing-cases, all beneath 

there burns 
A jewell'd harness, ere thev pass and 

fly. 
So Gareth ere he parted flash'd in 

arms. 
Then as he donn'd the helm, and took 

the shield 
And mounted horse and graspt a 

spear, of grain 
Storm-strengthen'd on a windy site, 

and tipt 
With trenchant steel, ari 

slowly prest 
The people, while from 

came 





Gareth and Lynette. 



The thralls in throng, and seeing who 

had work'd 
Lustier than any, and whom they 

could but love, 
Mounted in arms, threw up their caps 

and cried, 
' God bless the King, and all his 

fellowship! ' 
And on thro' lanes of shouting Gareth 



rode 

1 the slope street, and past 
out the gate. 



ith- 



So Gareth past with joy ; but as the 

Pluckt from the cur he fights with, ere 

his cause 
Be cool'd by fighting, follows, being 

named. 
His owner, but remembers all, and 

Remembering, so Sir Kay beside the 

door 
Mutter'd in scorn of Gareth whom he 

To harrv and hustle. 



With ha 
My scull 



' Bound upon a quest 
and arms— the King hath 



Thrall 



to your 

For an your fire be low ye kindle mine I 

Will there be dawn in West and eve 
in East ? 

Begone ! — my knave ! — belike and like 
enow 

Some old head-blow not heeded in his 
youth 

So shook his wits they wander in his 
prime — 

Crazed ! How the villain lifted up 
his voice, 

Nor shamed to bawl himself a kitchen- 
knave, 
he was tame and meek enow with 

peacock'd up with Lancelot's 

— f will after my loud knave, and 

master 



Tut 




Out of the smoke he came, and so my 

lance 
Hold, by God's grace, he shall into the 




^' 



But Lancelot said, 
' Kay, wherefore wilt thou go against 

the King, 
For that did never he whereon ye rail, 

er meekly served the King in 



But ev 
Abide 



for this lad is 
g both of lance 



counsel 

great 
And lusty, and know! 

and sword.' 
' Tut, tell not me,' said Kay, ' ye are 

overfine 
To mar stout knaves with foolish 

courtesies : ' 
Then mounted, on thro' silent faces 

rode 
Down the slope city, and out beyond 

the gate. 

Eut"bv the field of tourney lingering 

yet 
Mutter'd the damsel, 'Wherefore did 

the King 
Scorn me .' for, were Sir Lancelot 

lackt, at least 
He might have yielded to me one of 

those 
Who tilt for lady's love and glory here, 
Rather than— O sweet heaven ! O fie 

upon him — 
His kitchen-knave.' 

To whom Sir Gareth drew 
(.And there were none but few goodlier 

than he) 
Shining in arms, ' Damsel, the quest is 



Lead, 
That s 



md I follow.' She thereat, as 
iiells a foul-flesh'd agaric in the 



And deems it carrion of some wood- 
land thing. 

Or shrew, or weasel, nipt her slender 
nose 





Gareth and Lynette. 



With petulant thumb and finger, shrill- 
ing, ' Hence ! 

Avoid, thou smellest all of kitchen- 
grease. 

And look who comes behind,' for there 

' Knowest thou not me ? thy master ? 

I am Kay. 
We lack thee by the hearth.' 

And Gareth to him, 
' Master no more ! too well I know 

thee, ay— 
The most ungentle knight in Arthur's 

hall' 
' Have at thee then,' said K: 

shock'd, and Kay 
Fell shoulder-slipt, and Gareth cried 

again, 
' Lead, and I follow,' and fast away she 

fled. 



they 



But after sod and shingle ceased to 

fly 
Behind her, and the heart of her good 

horse 
Was nigh to burst with violence of the 

beat. 
Perforce she stay'd, and overtaken 

spoke. 

' What doest thou, scullion, in my 
fellowship ? 

Deem'st thou that I accept thee aught 
the more 

Or love thee better, that by some de- 
vice 

Full cowardly, or by mere unhappiness, 

Thou hast overthrown and slain thy 
master — thou 1 — 

Dish-washer and broach-turner, loon ! 
— to me 

Thou smellest all of kitchen as before.' 

' Damsel,' Sir Gareth answer'd 
gently, ' say 
Whate'erye will, but whatsoe'er ye say, 
I leave not till I finish this fair quest. 
Or die therefore.' 

' Ay, wilt thou finish it ? 
Sweet lord, how like a noble knight 
he t.ilks! 





The listening rogue hath caught the 

manner of it. 
But, knave, anon thou shall be met 

with, knave, 
And then by such a one that thou for 

all 
The kitchen brewis that was ever supt 
Shalt not once dare to look him in the 

face.' 

' I shall assay,' said Gareth with a 

smile 
That madden'd her, and away she 

flash'd again 
Down the long avenues of a boundless 

wood, 
And Gareth, following was again be- 

knaved. 

' Sir Kitchen-knave, I have miss'd 

the only way 
Where Arthur's men are set along the 

wood ; 
The wood is nigh as full of thieves as 

leaves: 
If both be slain, I am rid of thee ; but 

yet. 
Sir .Scullion, canst thuu use that spit 



of thii 



Fight, 



thou 



I have miss'd 



the 



idy way.' 



So till the dusk that follow'd even- 
song 

Rode on the two, reviler and reviled ; 

Then after one long slope was 
mounted, saw. 

Bowl-shaped, thro' tops of many 
thousand pines 

A gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sink 

To westward — in the deeps whereof a 



Eagle-owl, 
>et glared; 



Round as the red eye of i 

Under the half-dead su 
and shouts 

Ascended, and there brake a serving- 
man 

Flying from out of the black wood, and 
crying, 

' They have bound my lord 
in the mere.' 

Then Gareth. • Hound am I 





Gareth and Lvnette. 



But straitlier bound am I to bicU with 
thee.' 

And when the damsel spake contempt- 
uously, 

' Lead, and I follow,' Gareth cried 

' Follow, I lead ! ' so down among the 

pines 
He plunged ; and there, blackshadow'd 

nigh the mere. 
And mid-thigh-deep in bulrushes and 



A stone about his neck to drown him 

Three with good blows he quieted, 

but three 
Fled thro' the pines ; and Gareth 

loosed the stone 
From off his neck, then in the mere 

beside 
Tumbled it; oilily bubbled up the 

Last, Gareth loosed his bonds and on 

free feet 
Set him, a stalwart Baron, Arthur's 

friend. 

' Well that ye came, or else these 

caitiff rogues 
Had wreak'd themselves on me ; good 

cause is theirs 
To hate me, for my wont hath ever 

been 
To catch my thief, and then like ver- 
min here 
Drown him, and with a stone about his 

neck ; 
And under this wan water many of 

them 
Lie rotting, but at night let go the 

stone, 
And rise, and flickering in a grimly 

light 
Dance on the mere. Good now, ye 

have saved a life 
Worth somewhat as the cleanser of 

this wood. 
And fain would I reward thee wor- 

shipfully. 
What guerdon will ye > ' 





Gareth sharply spake, 
' None ! for the deed's sake have I 

done the deed. 
In uttermost obedience to the King. 
But wilt thou yield this damsel harbor- 
age } ' 

Whereat the Baron saying, ' I well 
believe 

You be of Arthur's Table,' a light 
laugh 

Broke from Lynette, ' Ay, truly of a 
truth. 

And in a sort, being Arthur's kitchen- 
knave ! — 

But deem not I accept thee aught the 

Scullion, for running sharply with 
thy spit 

A thresher wi 

them. 
Nay — for thou smallest of the kitchen 

still. 
But an this lord will yield us harbor- 



All in a full-fair manor and a rich. 
His towers where that day a feast had 

been 
Held in high hall, and many a viand 



received the 
peacock in 



jft. 
And many a costly catt 

three. 
And there they placed 

his pride 

Before the damsel, and the Baron set 
Gareth beside her, but at once she 

rose. 

' Meseems, that here is much dis- 
courtesy. 

Setting this knave, Lord Baron, at my 
side. 

Hear me — this morn I stood in 
Arthur's hall. 

And pray'd the King would grant me 
Lancelot 

To fight the brotherhood of Day and 
Night— 





Gareth and Lynette. 



The last a monster unsubduable 

Of any save of him for whom I call'd — 

Suddenly bawls this frontless kitchen- 
knave, 

"The quest is mine; thy kitchen- 
knave am I, 

And mighty thro' thy meats and 
drinks am I." 

Then Arthur all at once gone mad 
replies, 

■' Go therefore," and so gives the 
quest to him — 

Him — here — a villain fitter to stick 

Than ride abroad redressing women's 

wrong. 
Or sit beside a noble gentlewoman.' 

Then half-ashamed and part amazed, 

the lord 
Now look'd at one and now at other, 

left 
The damsel by the peacock in hii 

pride. 
And, seating Gareth at another board 
Sat down beside him, ate and then 

began. 

' Friend, whether thou be kitchen- 
knave, or not. 

Or whether it be the maiden's fantasy, 

And whether she be mad, or else the 
King, 

Or both or neither, or thyself be mad, 

I ask not : but thou strikest a strong 
stroke. 

For strong thou art and goodly there 
withal, 

And saver of my life ; and therefore 
now, 

For here be mighty men to joust with, 
weigh 

Whether thou wilt not with thy dam- 
sel back 

To crave again Sir Lancelot of the 
King. 

Thy pardon ; I but speak for thine 
avail. 

The saver of my life.' 



And Gareth said, 
I follow up the 





So when, next morn, the lord whose 

life he saved 
Had, some brief space, convey'd them 

on their way 
And left them with God-speed, Sir 

Gareth spake, 
' Lead, and I follow.' Haughtily she 

replied, 

' I fly no more : I allow thee for an 

hour. 
Lion and stoat have isled together, 

knave, 
In time of flood. Nay, furthermore, 

methinks 
Some ruth is mine for thee. Back 

wilt thou, fool } 
For hard by here is one will overthrow 
And slay thee : then will I to court 

again. 
And shame the King for only yielding 



To whom Sir Gareth answer'd 

courteously, 
' Say thou thy say, and I will do my 

deed. 
Allow me for mine hour, and thou 

wilt find 
My fortunes all as fair as hers who lay 
Among the ashes and wedded the 

King's son.' 

Then to the shore of one of those 

long loops 
Wherethro' the serpent river coil'd, 

thev came. 
Rough-thi'cketed were the banks and 



the 



Full, na 



this a bridge of single 



Took at a leap ; and on the further 

side 
Arose a silk pavilion, gay with gold 
In streaks and rays, and all Lent-lily 

in hue, 
Save that the dome was purple, and 

above, 





Gareth and Lynette. 



Crimson, a slender banneret fluttering. 
And therebefore the lawless warrior 

paced 
Unarm'd, and calling, ' Damsel, is this 

he, 
The champion thou hast brought 

from Arthur's hall ? 
For whom we let thee pass.' ' Nay, 

nay,' she said, 
' Sir Morning-Star. The King in 

utter scorn 
Of thee and thy much folly hath sent 

thee here 
His kitchen-knave : and look thou to 

thyself: 
See that he fall not on thee suddenly, 
And slay thee unarm'd : he is not 

knight but knave.' 

Then at his call, 'O daughters of 

the Dawn, 
And servants of the Morning-Star, 

approach. 
Arm me,' from out the silken curtain- 

foUls 
Bare-footed and bare-headed three 

fair girls 
In gilt and rosy raiment came : their 

feet 
In dewy grasses glisten'd ; and the hair 
All over glanced with dewdrop or 

with gem 
Like sparkles in the stone Avanturine. 
These arm'd him in blue arms, and 

gave a shield 
Blue also, and thereon the morning 

And Gareth silent gazed upon the 

knight. 
Who stood a moment, ere his horse 

was brought. 
Glorying ; and in the stream beneath 

him, shone 
Immingled with Heaven's azure 

waveringly. 
The gay pavilion and the naked feet. 
His arms, the rosy raiment, and the 

star. 

Then she that watch'd him, ' Where- 

ye so .' 

Thou shakest in thy fear : there yet is 





Flee down the valley before he get to 

horse. 
Who will cry shame ? Thou art not 

knight but knave.' 

Said Gareth, ' Damsel, whether 

knave or knight. 
Far liefer had I fight a score of times 
Than hear thee so missay me and 

revile. 
Fair words were best for him who 

fights for thee ; 
But truly foul are better, for they send 
That strength of anger thro' mine 

arms, I know 
That I shall overthrow him.' 

And he that bore 
The star, when mounted, cried from 

o'er the bridge, 
' A kitchen-knave, and sent in scorn 

of me! 
Such fight not I, but answer scorn 

with scorn. 
For this were shame to do him further 

wrong 
Than set him on his feet, and take his 

horse 
And arms, and so return him to the 

King. 
Come, therefore, leave thy lady lightly, 

knave. 
Avoid : for it beseemeth not a knave 
To ride with such a lady.' 

' Dog, thou liest. 
I spring from loftier lineage than thine 

He spake; and all at fiery speed the 

Shock'd on the central bridge, and 

either spear 
Bent but not brake, and either knight 

at once, 
Hurl'd as a stone from out of a catapult 
Beyond his horse's crupper and the 

bridge. 
Fell, as if dead ; but quickly rose and 

drew, 
And Gareth lash'd so fiercely with his 

brand 
He drave his enemy backward down 

the bridge. 





Gareth and Lvnette. 



The damsel crying, ' Well-stricken, 

kitclien-Unave ! ' 
Till Gareth's shield was cloven; but 

one stroke 
Laid him that clove it grovelling on 

the ground. 

Then cried the fall'n, 'Take not 
my life : I yield.' 
And Gareth, ' So this damsel ask it of 

Good — I accord it easily as a grace.' 
She reddening, 'Insolent scullion: I 

of thee .> 
I bound to thee for any favor ask'd ! ' 
' Then shall he die.' And Gareth 

there unlaced 
His helmet as to slay him, but she 

shriek'd, 
'Be not so hardy, scullion, as to slay 
One nobler thau thyself.' 'Damsel, 

thy charge 
Is an abounding pleasure to me. 

Knight, 
Thy life is thine at her command. 

Arise 
And quickly pass to Arthur's hall, 

and say 
His kitchen-knave hath sent thee. 

See thou crave 
His pardon for thy breaking of his 

Mvself, when I return, will plead for 

thee 
Thy shield is mine — farewell ; and, 

damsel, thou. 
Lead, and I follow.' 

And fast away she fled. 
Then when he came upon her, spake, 

' Methought, 
Knave, when I watch'd thee striking 

on the bridge 
The savor of thy kitchen came upon 

me 
A little faintlier: but the wind hath 

changed : 
I scent it twenty-fold.' And then she 

sang, 
' " O morning star " (not that tall felon 



thou by sorcery or unhappi- 





Or some device, hast foully 

thrown), 
" O morning star that smilest in the 

blue, 
O star, my morning dream hath proven 

true. 
Smile sweetly, thou ! my love hath 

smiled on me." 

'But thou begone, take counsel, and 

away. 
For hard by here is one that guards a 

ford— 
The second brother in their fool's 

parable — 
Will pay thee all thy wages, and to 

boot. 
Care not for shame : thou art not 

knight but knave.' 

To whom Sir Gareth answer'd, laugh- 
ingly, 

' Parables ? Hear a parable of the 
knave. 

When I was kitchen-knave among the 

Fierce was the hearth, and one of my 

co-mates 
Own'd a rough dog, to whom he cast 

his coat, 
" Guard it," and there was none to 

meddle with it. 
And such a coat art thou, and thee the 

King 
Gave me to guard, and such a dog am 

I, 
To worry, and not to flee — and — 

knight or knave— 
The knave that doth thee .service as 

full knight 
Is all as good, meseems,as any knight 
Toward thy sister's freeing.' 

' Ay, Sir Knave ! 
Ay, knave, because thou strikest as a 

knight. 
Being but knave, I hate thee all the 



' Fair damsel, you should worship 
me the more. 
That, being but knave, I throw thine 
enemies.' 





Gareth and Lynette. 



Ay, ay,' she said, 'but thou shall 
thy match.' 



So when they touch'd the second 
Huge on a huge red horse, and all in 
: the Noon- 
As i£ the 



Burnish'd to blinding, shon 

day Sun 
Beyond a raging shallow. 

flower. 
That blows a globe of after arrowlets. 
Ten thousand-fold had grown, flash'd 

the fierce shield, 
All sun ; and Gareth's eyes had flying 

blots 
Before them when he turn'd from 

watching him. 
He from beyond the roaring shallow 

roar'd, 
' What doest thou, brother, in my 

marches here ? ' 
And she athwart the shallow shrill'd 

again, 
' Here is a Uitchen-knave from Arthur's 

hall 
Hath overthrown thy brother, and 

hath his arms.' ' 
' Ugh I ' cried the Sun, and visoring 

up a red 
And cipher face of rounded foolish- 
ness, 
Push'd horse across the foamings of 

the ford, 
Whom Gareth met midstream : no 

room was there 
For lance or tourney-skill : four 

strokes they struck 
With sword, and these were mighty ; 

the new knight 
Had fear he might be shamed ; but as 

the Sun 
Heaved up a ponderous arm to strike 

the fifth, 
The hoof of his horse slipt in the 

stream, the stream 
Descended, and the Sun was wash'd 



lid his lance athwart 



Then Gareth 
the ford ; 
So drew him home ; but he that 




As being all bone-batter'd on the 
rock, 

t him to the 

ill plead for 

Quietly she 



Yielded ; and Ga 

King. 
■ Myself when I i 




'Lead, and I follow.' 

led. 
' Hath not the good wind, damsel, 

changed again .' ' 
' Nay, not a point : nor art thou victor 

here. 
There lies a ridge of slate across the 

ford; 
His horse thereon stumbled — ay, for I 

saw it. 

'"O Sun" (not this strong fool 

whom thou, Sir Knave, 
Hast overthrown thro' mere unhappi- 

ness), 
"O Sun, that wakenest all to bliss or 

pain, 
O moon, that layest all to sleep again. 
Shine sweetly: twice my love hath 

smiled on me.' 

'What knowestthou of lovesong or 

of love ? 
Nay, nay, God wot, so thou wert 

nobly born. 
Thou hast a pleasant presence. Yea, 

perchance,^ 



that open to the 

:lose when day is 

ove hath 



' " O dewy flowers 

O dewy flowers that c 

done, 
Blow sweetly: twice 

smiled on me." 



' What knowest thou of flowers, 
except, belike, 

To garnish meats with .' hath not our 
good King 

Who ient me thee, the flower of 
kitchendom, 

A foolish love for flowers? what stick 
ye round 

The pasty.' wherewithal deck the 
boar's head ? 

Flowers? nay, the boar hath rose- 
maries and bay. 





Garetk and Lynette. 



' " O birds, that warble to the morn- 
ing sky, 
O birds that warble as the day goes by, 
Sing sweetly : twice my love hath 
smiled on me." 

' What knowest thou of birds, lark, 



May-music growing with the growing 

light, 
Their sweet sun-worship ? these be for 

the snare 
(So runs thy fancy) these be for the 

spit. 
Larding and basting. See thou have 

not now 
Larded thy last, except thou turn and 

fly- 
There stands the third fool of their 

allegory.' 

For there beyond a bridge of treble 
bow. 
All in a rose-red from the west, and 

all 
Naked it seem'd, and glowing in the 

Deep-dimpled current underneath, the 
knight, 

That named himself the Star of Even- 
ing, stood. 

And Gareth, ' Wherefore waits the 

madman there 
Naked in open dayshine ? ' ' Nay,' 

she cried, 
' Not naked, only wrapt in harden'd 

skins 
That fit him like his own ; and so ye 

cleave 
His armor off him, these will turn the 

blade.' 

Then the third brother shouted o'er 
the bridge, 
' O brother-star, why shine ye here so 



Thy ward is higher up : but have ye 

slain 
The damsel's champion?' and the 

damsel cried. 





'No star of thine, but shot from 

Arthur's heaven 
With all disaster unto thine and 

thee! 
For both thy younger brethren have 

gone down 
Before this youth ; and so wilt thou. 

Sir Star ; 
Art thou not old ? ' 

'Old, damsel, old and hard. 
Old, with the might and breath of 

twenty boys.' 
Said Gareth, ' Old, and over-bold in 

brag I 
But that same strength which threw 

the Morning Star 
Can throw the Evening.' 

Then that other blew 
A hard and deadly note upon the 

horn. 
' Approach and arm me ! ' With slow 

steps from out 
An old storm-beaten, russet, many- 

stain'd 
Pavilion, forth a grizzled damsel 

came. 
And arm'd him in old arms, and 

brought a helm 
With but a dr\ing evergreen for 

crest. 
And gave a shield whereon the Star of 

Even 
Half-tarnish'd and half-bright, his em- 
blem, shone. 
But when it glitter'd o'er the saddle- 
bow, • 
They madly hurl'd together on the 

bridge ; 
And Gareth overthrew him, lighted, 

drew. 
There met him drawn, and overthrew 

him again. 
But up like fire he started : and as 

oft 
As Gareth brought him grovelling on 

his knees. 
So manv a time he vaulted up agam ; 
Till Gareth panted hard, and his 

great heart. 
Foredooming all his trouble was in 





Gareth and Lyyiette. 



Labor 'd within him, for he seem'd as 

one 
That all in later, sadder age begins 
To war against ill uses of a life, 
But these from all his life arise, and 

cry, 
'Thou hast made us lords, and canst 

not put us down !' 
He half despairs ; so Gareth seem'd 

to strike 
Vainly, the damsel clamoring all the 

while, 
' Well done, knave-knight, well 

stricken, O good knight-knave^- 
O knave, as noble as any of all the 

knights — 
Shame me not, shame me not. I have 

prophesied — 
Strike, thou art worthy of the Table 

Round — 
His arms are old, he trusts the 

harden'd skin — 
Strike — strike — the wind will never 

change again.' 
And Gareth hearing ever stronglier 



Butl 


ish'd in vain agains 
skin. 


the harden'd 


And 


could not wholly L 
der, more 


ring him un- 


Than 


loud Southwest 
ridge on ridge. 


urns, rolling 


The buoy that rides at s 


ea, and dips 




and sprmgs 




>or 


'ver; till at length 
brand 


Sir Gareth's 


Clash'd his, and brake it 


utterly to the 




hilt. 




'1 h 


ive thee now ; ' but forth that 




other sprang, 




And, allunknightlike,wr 


thed his wiry 




arms 




Arou 


nd him, till he fel 


, despite his 



Strangled, but straining ev'n his utter- 
most 

Cast, and so hurl'd him headlong o'er 
the bridge 

Down to the river, sink or swim, and 
cried, 

'Lead, and I follow.' 





But the damsel said, 
' I lead no longer ; ride thou at my 

side; 
Thou art the kingliest of all kitchen- 
knaves. 

'"O trefoil, sparkling on the rainy 
plain, 
O rainbow with three colors after 

Shine sweetly : thrice my love hath 
smiled on me." 

' Sir, — and, good faith, I fain had 

added — Knight, 
But that I heard thee call thyself a 

knave, — 
Shamed am I that I so rebuked, 

reviled, 
Missaid thee ; noble I am ; and thought 

the King 
Scorn'd me and mine ; and now thy 

pardon, friend, 
For thou hast ever answer'd court- 
eously, 
And wholly bold thou art, and meek 

withal 
As any of Arthur's best, but, being 

knave. 
Hast mazed my wit : I marvel what 

thou art. 

' Damsel,' he said, ' you be not all to 

blame. 
Saving that you mistrusted our good 

King 
AVould handle scorn, or yield you, 

asking, one 
Not fit to cope your quest. You said 

your say ; 
Mine answer was my deed. Good 

sooth ! I hold 
He scarce is knight, yea but half-man, 

nor meet 
To fight for gentle damsel, he, who 

lets 
His heart be stirr'd with any foolish 

heat 
At any gentle damsel's waywardness. 
Shamed .> care not I thy foul sayings 

fought for me : 
And seeing now thy words are fair, 

methinks 





Gareth and Lynette. 



rides no knight, not Lancelot, 
liis great self, 
llatli force to quell me.' 

Nigh upon that hour 
When the lone hern forgets his melan- 
choly, 
Lets down his other leg, and stretching, 

dreams 
Of goodly supper in the distant pool. 
Then turn'd the noble damsel smiling 

at him, 
And told him of a cavern hard at 

hand. 
Where bread and baken meats and 

good red wine 
Of Southland, which the Lady Lyonors 
Had sent her coming champion, waited 



Anon they past a narrow comb 

wherein 
Were slabs of rock with figures, 

knights on horse 
Sculptrired, and deckt in slowly-waning 

hues. 
' Sir Knave, my knight, a hermit once 

was here. 
Whose holy hand hath fashion'd on 

the rock 
The war of Time against the soul of 

man. 
And yon four fools have suck'd their 

allegory 
From these damp walls, and taken but 

the form. 
Know ye not these ? ' and Gareth lookt 

and read — 
In letters like to those the vexillary 
Hath left crag-carven o'er the stream- 
ing Gelt— 
' PHOsriKiKUS, ' then ' Meridies ' — 

' Hesperus' — 
' Nox' — ' Mors,' beneath five figures, 

armed men. 
Slab after slab, their faces forward 

all, 
And running down the Soul, a Shape 

that fled . 
With broken wings, torn raiment and 





' Follow the faces, 

Look, 
Who comes behind.'' 

For one — delay'd ; 
Thro' helping back the dislocated Kay 
To Camelot, then by what thereafter 

chanced. 
The, damsel's headlong error thro' the 

Sir Lancelot, having swum the river- 

loops- 
His blue shield-lions cover'd— softly 

drew 
Behind the twain, and when he saw 

the star 
Gleam, on Sir Gareth's turning to him, 

cried, 
' Stay, felon knight, I avenge me for 

*my friend.' 
And Gareth crying prick'd against the 

cry ; 
But when they closed — in a moment — 

at one touch 
Of that skill'd spear, the wonder of 

the world- 
Went sliding down so easily, and fell. 
That when he found the grass within 

his hands 
He laugh'd; the laughter jarr'd upon 

Lynette : 
Harshly she ask'd him, ' Shamed and 

overthrown, 
And tumbled bacjc into the kitchen- 

knave» 
Why laugh ye ? that ye blew your boast 

in vain .' ' 
' Nay, noble damsel, but that I, the 

Of old King Lot and good Queen Belli- 

cent. 
And victor of the bridges and the 

ford. 
And knight of Arthur, here lie thrown 

by whom 
I know not, all thro' mere unhappi- 

ness — 
Device and sorcery and unhappir 
Out, sword ; we are thrown ! ' And 

Lancelot answer'd, ' Prince, 
O Gareth — thro' the mere unhappiness 
Of one who came to help thee, not to 










/<rii 1 ^-^ 


I \ 1 .nri> 






Gareth and Lynctie. 197 


1 


Lancelot, and all as glad to find thee 


And thou are weary; yet not less I 


■ 


whole. 


felt 








As on the day when Arthur knighted 


Thy manhood thro' that wearied lance 






t^ him.' ■ 


of thine. <^ 
Well hast thou done; for all the stream 




Then Gareth, ' Thou— Lancelot 1— 


is freed, 




Ihine the hand 


And thou hast wreak'd his justice on 




That threw me? An some chance to 


his foes. 




mar the boast 


And when reviled, hast answer'd gra- 




Thy brethren of thee make— which 


ciously, 




could not chance- 


And makest merry when overthrown. 




Had sent thee down before a lesser 


Prince, Knight, 




spear, 


Hail, Knight and Prince, and of our 




Shamed had I been, and sad— O Lance- 


Table Round ! ' 




lot—thou ! ' 


And then when turning to Lynette 




Whereat the maiden, petulant, 


he told 




' Lancelot, 


The tale of Gareth, petulantly she 




Why came ye not, when call'd ? and 


said. 




wherefore now 


'Ay well— ay well— for worse than 




Come ye, not call'd? I gloried in my 
knave. 


being fool'd 




Of others, is to fool one's self. A 




Who being still rebuked, would an- 


cave, 




swer%till 


Sir Lancelot, is hard by, with meats 




Courteous as any knight-but now, if 


and drinks 




knight. 


And forage for the horse, and flint for 




The marvel dies, and leaves me fool'd 


firf. 




and trick'd. 


But all about it flies a honeysuckle. 




And only wondering wherefore play'd 


Seek, till we find.' And when'they 




upon : 


sought and found, 




And doubtful whether I and mine be 


Sir Gareth drank and ate, and all his 




scorn'd. 


life 




■ Where should be truth if not in 


Past into sleep ; on whom the maiden 




Arthur's hall. 


gazed. 




In Arthur's presence ? Knight, knave, 


' Sound sleep be thine ! sound cause 




prince and fool. 


to sleep hast thou. 




I hate thee and forever.' 


Wake lusty ! ■ Seem I not as tender 

to him 
As any mother ? Ay, but such a one 




And Lancelot said, 




•Blessed be thou, Sir Gareth! knight 


As all day long hath rated at her 




art thou 


child. 




To the, King's best wish. O damsel. 


And vext his day, but blesses him 




be you wise 


asleep- 




To call him shamed, who is but over- 


Good lord, how sweetly smells the 




thrown ? 


honeysuckle 




Thrown have I been, nor once, but 


In the hush'd night, as if the world 




many a time. 


were one 




I Victor from vanquish'd issues at the 


0£ utter peace, and love, and gentle- "^ 




- 


last. 


ness ! 








And overthrower from being over- 


Lancelot, Lancelot '—and she clapt 


" 






thrown. 


her hands— 








With sword Ave have not striven; and 


' Full merry am I to find my goodlv 






^ 


thy good horse' 

% \ \ I lA 1 LjJV 


knave 


] 














Gareth atid Lynelte. 



Is knight and noble. See now, sworn 

have I, 
Else yon black felon had not let me 

To brine; thee back to do the battle 

with him. 
Thus and thou goest, he will fight thee 

Who doubts thee victor ? so will my 
knight-knave 

Miss the full flower of this accom- 
plishment.' 

Said Lancelot, ' Peradventure he, 
you name. 

May know my shield. Let Gareth, 
an he will, 

Change his for mine, and take my 
charger, fresh. 

Not to be spurr'd, loving the battle 
as well 

As he that rides him.' ' Lancelot- 
like,' she said, 

' Courteous in this. Lord Lancelot, as 
in all.' 

And Gareth, wakening, fiercely 

clutch'd the shield ; 
' Ranip ye lance-splintering lions, on 

whom all spears 
Are rotten sticks ! ye seem agape to 

roar ! 
Yea, ramp and roar at leaving of 

your lord ! — 
Care not, good beasts, so well I care 

for you. 
O noble Lancelot, from my hold on 

these 
Streams virtue — fire — thro' one that 

will not shame 
Even the shadow of Lancelot under 

shield. 
Hence : let us go.' 

Silent the silent field 
They traversed. Arthur's harp tho' 

summer-wan, 
In counter motion to the clouds, 

allured 
The glance of Gareth dreaming on his 

liege. 





An owl whoopt : ' Hark the victor 
pealing there ! ' 

Suddenly she that rode upon his left 

Clung to the shield that Lancelot 
lent him, crying, 

' Yield, yield him this again : 'tis he 
must fight : 

I curse the tongue that all thro' yes- 
terday 

Reviled thee, and hath wrought on 
Lancelot now 

To lend thee horse and shield : won- 
ders ye have done ; 

Miracles ye cannot : here is glory 



Inh3 



ving J 



ng the three : 



thee 



Mangled : I swear thou canst not 
fling the fourth.' 

' And wherefore, damsel ? tell me 

all ye know. 
You cannot scare me ; nor rough 

face, or voice, 
Brute bulk of limb, or boundless 

savagery 
Appal me from the quest.* 

' Nay, Prince,* she cried, 

' God wot, I never look'd upon the 
face, 

Seeing he never rides abroad by 
day ; 

But watch'd him have I like a phan- 
tom pass 

Chilling the night: nor have I heard 
the voice. 

Always he made his mouthpiece of a 
page 

Who came and went, and still re- 
ported him 

As closing in himself the strength of 

And when his anger tare him, massa- 
cring 

Man, woman, lad and girl — yea, tlie- 
soft babe ! 

Some hold that he hath swallow'd 
infant flesh, 

Monster I O Prince, I went for Lance- 
lot first. 

The quest is Lancelot's: give him 
back the shield.' 





Gareth and Lyttette. 



Said Gareth laughing, ' An he fight 
for this, 
Belike he wins it as the better man ; 
Thus— and not else ! ' 

But Lancelot on him urged 
All the devisings of their chivalry 
When one might meet a mightier 

than himself ; 
How best to manage horse, lance, 

sword and shield, 
And so fill up the gap where force 

might fail 
With skill and fineness. Instant 

were his words. 

Then Gareth, 'Here be rules. I 
know but one — 
To dash against mine enemy and to 

Yet have I watch'd thee victor in the 

joust. 
And seen thy way.' ' Heaven help 

thee,' sigh'd Lynette. 

Then for a space, and under cloud 

that grew 
To thunder-gloom palling all stars, 

they rode 
In converse till she made her palfrey 

halt. 
Lifted an arm, and softly whlsper'd 

' There.' 
And all the three were silent seeing, 

pitch'd 
Beside .he Castle Perilous on flat 

field. 
A huge pavilion like a mountain 

peak 
Sunder the glooming crimson on the 

marge. 
Black, with black banner, and a long 

black horn 
Beside it hanging ; which Sir Gareth 

graspt. 
And so, before the two could hinder 

him, 
Sent all his heart and breath thro' all 

the horn. 
Echo'd the walls ; a light twinkled ; 

anon 
Came lights and lights, and once 

again he blew ; 





Whereon were hol'ow 

and down 
And muffled voices heard, and shad- 
Till high above him, circled with her 

The Lady Lyonors at a window stood. 
Beautiful among lights, and waving 

to him 
White hands, and courtesy ; but when 

the Prince 
Three times had blown — after long 

hush— at last — 
The huge pavilion slowly yielded up, 
Thro' those black foldings, that which 

housed therein. 
High on a nightblack horse, in night- 
black arms. 
With white breast-bone, and barren 

ribs of Death, 
And crown'd with fleshless laughter 

— some ten steps — 
In the half-light — thro' the dim dawn 

— advanced 
The monster, and then paused, and 

spake no word. 

But Gareth spake and all indig- 
nantly, 
' Fool, for thou hast, men say, the 

strength of ten. 
Canst thou not trust the limbs thy 

God hath given. 
But must, to make the terror of thee 

more, 
Trick thyself out in ghastly imageries 
Of that which Life hath done with, 

and the clod. 
Less dull than thou, will hide with 

mantling flowers 
Asif for pity .' ' But he spake no word; 
Which set the horror higher : a 

maiden swoon'd ; 
The Lady Lyonors wrung her hands 

and wept. 
As doom'd to be the bride of Night 

and Death; 
Sir Gareth's head prickled beneath 

his helm ; 
And ev'n Sir Lancelot thro' his warm 

blood felt 
Ice strike, and all that mark'd him 

were aghast. 





The Marriage of Geraint. 



At once Sir Lancelot's charger 

fiercely neigh'd 
And Death's dark war-horse bounded 

forward with him. 
Then those that did not blink the 

That Death was cast to ground, and 

slowly rose. 
But with one stroke Sir Gareth split 

the skull. 
Half fell to right and half to left and 

lav. 
Then with a stronger buffet he clove 

the helm 
As throughly as the skull ; and out 

from this 
Issued the bright face of a blooming 

boy 
Fresh as a flower new-born, and cry- 
ing, ' Knight, 
Slay me not: my three brethren bad 



To! 



akei 



And St; 

They never dream 

Answcr'd Sir Ga 



1 the passes would 
eth graciously to 



Not manv a moon his younsier, ' Mv 

fair child, 
What madness made thee challenge 

the chief knight 



'Fair Sir, they 
nd Lancelot, the 



Of Arthur's hall 

bad me do it. 
They hate the King, 

King's friend. 
They hoped to slay him somewhere 

on the stream. 
They never dream'd the passes could 

be past.' 

Then sprang the happier day from 

underground ; 
And Lady Lyonors and her house, 

with dance 
And revel and song, made merrv over 

Death, 
As being after all their foolish fears 
And horrors only proven a blooming 



id Gareth won 





And he that told the tale 



Says that Sir Gareth wedded Lyonors, 
But he, that told it later, says Lynette. 



THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT. 

The brave Geraint, a knight of 

Arthur's court, 
A tributary prince of Devon, one 
Of that great Order of the Table 

Round, 
Had married Enid, Yniol's only child. 
And loved her, as he loved the light 

of Heaven. 
And as the light of Heaven varies. 



At 



at 



by 



With moon and trembling 

loved Geraint 
To make her beauty vary da; 
In crimsons and in purple 



Who first had found and loved her in 

a state 
Of broken fortunes, daily fronted him 
In some fresh splendor; and the 

Queen herself. 
Grateful to Prince Geraint for service 

done, 
Loved her, and often with her own 

white hands 
Array'd and deck'd her, as the loveli- 

Next after her own self, in all the 

And Enid loved the Queen, and with 

true heart 
Adored her, as the stateliest and the 

best 
And loveliest of all women upon 

earth. 
And seeing them so tender and so 

close. 
Long in their common love rejoiced 

Geraint. 
But when a rumor rose about the 



Que 





The Marriage of Geraint. 



Touching her guilty love for Lancelot, 

Tho' yet there Uved no proof, nor yet 
was heard 

The world's loud whisper breaking 
into storm, 

Not less Geraint believed it ; and 
there fell 

A horror on him, lest his gentle wife. 

Thro' that great tenderness for Guin- 
evere, 

Had suffer'd, or should suffer any 

In nature : wherefore going to the 

He made this pretext, that his prince- 
dom lay 
Close on the borders of a territory, 
Wherein were bandit earls, and caitiff 

knights. 
Assassins, and all flyers from the hand 
Of Justice, and whatever loathes a 

law : 
And therefore, till the King himself 

should please 
To cleanse this common sewer of all 

his realm, 
He craved a fair permission to depart, 
And there defend his marches ; and 

the King 
Mused for a little on his plea, but, 

last. 
Allowing it, the Prince and Enid 

rode. 
And fifty knights rode with them, to 

the shores 
Of Severn, and they past to their own 

land ; 
Where, thinking, that if ever yet was 

wife 
True to her lord, mine shall be so to 

He compass'd her with sweet observ- 

And worship, never leaving her, and 

grew 

Forgetful of his promise to the King, 

P'orgetful of the falcon and the hunt. 

Forgetful of the tilt and tournament. 

Forgetful of his glory and his name. 

Forgetful of his princedom and its 

cares. 
And this forgetfulness was hateful to 





And by and by the people, when they 

In twos and threes, or fuller com- 
panies. 

Began to scoff and jeer and babble of 
him 

As of a prince whose manhood was 
all gone, 

And molten down in mere uxorious- 
ness. 

And this she gather'd from the peo- 
ple's eyes : 

This too the women who attired her 
head. 

To please her, dwelling on his bound- 
less love. 

Told Enid, and they sadden'd her the 
more : 

And day by day she thought to tell 
Geraint, 

But could not out of bashful delicacy; 

While he that watch'd her sadden, 
was the more 

Suspicious that her nature had a taint. 



Atl 



, it chanced that on a summer 



(They sleeping each by either) the 

new sun 
Beat thro' the blindless casement of 

the room. 
And heated the strong warrior in his 

dreams ; 
Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside, 
And bared the knotted column of 

his throat. 
The iTiassive square of his heroic 

And arms on which the standing 

muscle sloped, 
As slopes a wild brook o'er a little 

stone. 
Running too vehemently to break 

upon it. 
And Enid woke and 

couch. 
Admiring him, and thought 

herself. 
Was ever man so grandlv made : 

he.' 
Then, like a shadow, past the people 

talk 
And accusation of uxoriousness 



beside the 
thin 





The Marriage of Geraint. 



ncl, and bowing over 
n heart piteously she 



'O noble breast and all-puissant 
arms, 
Am I the cause, I the poor cause that 

Reproach you, saying all your force 

is gone ? 
1 am the cause, because I dare not 

speak 
And tell him what I think and what 

they say. 
And yet I hate that he should linger 

here; 
I cannot love my lord and not his 

Far liefer had I gird his harness on 

him, 
And ride with him to battle and stand 

by, 

And watch his mightful hand striking 

great blows 
At caitiffs and at wrongers of the 

world. 
Far better were I laid in the dark 

earth, 
Not hearing any more his noble voice, 
Not to be folded more in these dear 

arms. 
And darken'd from the high light in 

his eyes, 
Than that my lord thro' me should 

suffer shame. 
Am I so bold, and could I so stand 

by, 
And see my dear lord wounded in the 

strife. 
Or maybe pierced to death before 

mine eyes, 
And vet not dare to tell him what I 

' think. 
And how men slur him, saying all his 

force 



Ism 


elted into mer 


e effeminacy ? 




O m 


s, I fear that I 




true w 


fe.' 


Half inwardly. 


half 


audibly 


she 




spoke. 








And 


the strong passion 


in her made 


' 


her weep 










his broad and naked 
d by great 



True tears u] 

breast. 
And these awoke h 

mischance 
He heard but fragments of her later 

words. 
And that she fear'd she was not a true 

wife. 
And then he thought, ' In spite of all 

my care, 
For all my pains, poor man, for all my 

She is not faithful to me, and I see 

her 
Weeping for some gay knight in 

Arthur's hall.' 
Then tho' he loved and reverenced 

her too much 
To dream she could be guilty of foul 

Right thro' his manful breast darted 

the pang 
That makes a man, in the sweet face 

other 
Whom he loves most, lonely and 

miserable. 
At this he hurl'd his huge limbs out of 

bed, 
And shook his drowsy squire awake 

and cried, 
' My charger and her palfrey ; ' then 

to her, 
' I will ride forth into the wilderness ; 
For tho' it seems my spurs are yet to 

win, 
I have not fall'n so low as some 

would wish. 
And thou, put on thy worst and 

meanest dress 
And ride with me.' And Enid ask'd, 

amazed, 
'If Enid errs, let Enid learn her 

fault.' 
But he, ' I charge thee, ask not, but 

obey.' 
Then she bethought her of a faded 

silk, 
A faded mantle and a faded veil. 
And moving toward a cedarn cabinet. 
Wherein she kept them folded rever- 
ently 
With sprigs of summer laid between 

the folds. 





The Marriage of Geraint. 



She took them, and ; 

therein. 
Remembering when fir; 



iy'd herself 



in that dress, and how he loved 

her in it. 
And all her foolish fears about the 

dress. 
And all his journey to her, as himself 
Had told her, and their coming to the 

court. 



on the Whitsuntide 
leon upon Usk. 



For Arthi 
before 

Held court at old C, 

There on a day, he sitting high in hall, 

Before him came a forester of Dean, 

Wet from the woods, with notice of a 
hart 

Taller than all his fellows, milky- 
white, 

First seen that day: these things he 
told the King. 

Then the good King gave order to 
let blow 

His horns for hunting on the morrow- 
morn. 

And when the Queen petition'd for 
his leave 

To see the hunt, allow'd it easily. 

So with the morning all the court 
were gone. 

But Guinevere lay late into the morn. 

Lost in sweet dreams, and dreaming 
of her love 

For Lancelot, and forgetful of the 

But rose at last, a single maiden with 
her. 

Took horse, and forded Usk, and 
gain'd the wood ; 

There, on a little knoll beside it, 
stay'd 

Waiting to hear the hounds; but 
heard instead 

A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince 
Geraint, 

Late also, wearing neither hunting- 
dress 

Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted 
brand. 

Came quickly flashing thro' the shal- 
low ford 





Behind them, and so gallop'd up the 

knoll. 
A purple scarf, at either end whereof 
There swung an apple of the purest 

gold, 
Sway'd round about him, as he 

gallop'd up 
To join them, glancing like a dragon- 
fly 
In summer suit and silks of holiday. 
Low bow'd the tributary Prince, and 

she. 
Sweetly and statelily, and with all 

grace 
Of womanhood and queenhood, 

answer'd him : 
' Late, late, Sir Prince,' she said, 

' later than we ! ' 
' Yea, noble Queen,' he answer'd, 

'and so late 
That I but come like you to see the 

hunt, 
Not join it.' ' Therefore wait with 

me,' she said; 
' For on this little knoll, if anywhere. 
There is good chance that we shall 

hear the hounds : 
Here often they break covert at our 

feet.' 

And while they listen'd for the 

distant hunt. 
And chiefly for the baying of Cavall, 
King Arthur's hound of deepest 

mouth, there rode 
Full slowly by a knight, lady, and 

dwarf ; 
Whereof the dwarf lagg'd latest, and 

the knight 
Had visor up, and show'd a youthful 

face, 
Imperious, and of haughtiest linea- 

And Guinevere, not mindful of his face 
In the King's hall, desired his name, 

and sent 
Her maiden to demand it of the 

dwarf; 
Who being vicious, old and irritable. 
And doubling all his master's vice of 

pride, 
Made answer sharply that she should 

not know. 





The Marriage of Geraint. 



' Then will I ask it of himself,' she 

said. 
'Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not,' 

cried the dwarf ; 
' Thou art not worthy ev'n to speak of 

him ; ' 
And when she put her horse toward 

the knight, 
Struck at her with his whip, and she 

return'd 
Indignant to the Queen ; whereat 

Geraint 
Exclaiming, ' Surely I will learn the 

Made sharply to the dwarf, and ask'd 

it of him, 
Who answer'd as before ; and when 

the Prince 
Had put his horse in motion toward 

the knight. 
Struck at him with his whip, and cut 

his cheek. 
The Prince's blood spirted upon the 

scarf. 
Dyeing it ; and his quick, instinctive 

hand 
Caught at the hilt, as to abolish 

him : 
But he, from his exceeding manfulness 
And pure nobility of temperament, 
Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, 

refrain'd 
From ev'n a word, and so returning 

said: 

' I will avenge this insult, noble 

Queen, 
Done in your maiden's person to 

yourself : 
And I will track this vermin to their 

earths : 
For tho' I ride unarm'd, I do not 

doubt 
To find, at someplace I shall come at, 

arms 
On loan, or else for pledge ; and, 

being found, 
Then will I fight him, and will break 

his pride, 
And on the third day will again be 

here. 
So that I be not fall'n in fight. 

Farewell.' 





' Farewell, fair Prince,' answer'd 

the stately Queen. 
' Be prosperous in this journey, as in 

all; 
And may you light on all things that 

you love. 
And live to wed with her whom first 

you love : 
But ere you wed with any, bring your 

bride. 
And I, were she the daughter of a 

king. 
Yea, tho' she were a beggar from the 

hedge, 
Will clothe her for her bridals like 

the sun.' 

And Prince Geraint, now thinking 

that he heard 
The noble hart at bay, now the far 

horn, 
A little vext at losing of the hunt, 
A little at the vile occasion, rode, 
By ups and downs, thro' many a 

grassy glade 
And valley, with fixt eye following the 

three. 
At last they issued from the world of 

wood, 
And climb'd upon a fair and even 

ridge. 
And show'd themselves against the 

sky, and sank. 
And thither came Geraint, and under- 
neath 
Beheld the long street of a little town 
In a long valley, on one side whereof. 
White from the mason's hand, a 

fortress rose ; 
And on one side a castle in decay. 
Beyond a bridge that spann'd a dry 

ravine : 
And out of town and valley came a 

noise 
As of a broad brook o'er a shingly 

bed 
Brawling, or like a clamor of the 

rooks 
At distance, ere they settle for the 

night. 





The Marriage of Geraint. 



And entei'd, and were lost behind the 
walls. 

' So,' thought Geraint, ' I have track'd 
him to his earth.' 

And down the long street riding 
wearily, 

Found every hostel full, and every- 
where 

Was hammer laid to hoof, and the 
hot hiss 

And bustling whistle of the youth who 

His master's armor ; and of such a 

one 
He ask'd, ' What means the tumult in 

the town ? ' 
Who told him, scouring still, ' The 

sparrow-hawk ! ' 
Then riding close behind an ancient 

churl, 
Who, smitten by the dusty sloping 

beam. 
Went sweating underneath a sack of 

corn, 
Ask'd yet once more what meant the 

hubbub here ? 
Who answer'd gruffly, 'Ugh! the 

sparrow-hawk.' 
Then riding further past an armorer's. 
Who, with back turn'd, and bow'd 

above his work. 
Sat riveting a helmet on his knee, 
He put the self-same query, but the 

Not turning round, nor looking at him, 
said : 

' Friend, he that labors for the 
sparrow-hawk 

Has little time for idle questioners.' 

Whereat Geraint flash'd into sudden 
spleen : 

' A thousand pips eat up your sparrow- 
hawk ! 

Tits, wrens, and all wing'd nothings 
peck him dead! 

Ye think the rustic cackle of your 
bourg 

The murmur of the world! What is it 



etched set of sparrows, one and 
all. 
Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow- 
hawks 1 





Speak, if ye be not like the rest, h; 

mad. 
Where can I get me harborage for 

the night ? 
And arms, arms, arms to fight my 

enemy ? Speak I ' 
Whereat the armorer turning all 

amazed 
And seeing one so gay in purple 

Came forward with the helmet yet in 

hand 
And answer'd, ' Pardon me, O stranger 

knight; 
We hold a tourney here to-morrow 

morn, 
And there is scantly time for half the 

work. 
Arms .' truth ! I know not : all are 

wanted here. 
Harborage t truth, good truth, I 

know not, save, 
It may be, at Earl Yniol's, o'er the 

bridge 
Yonder.' He spoke and fell to work 

again. 

Then rode Geraint, a little spleen- 
ful yet. 

Across the bridge that spann'd the 
dry ravine. 

There musing sat the hoary-headed 
Earl, 

(His dress a suit of fray'd magnifi- 
cence. 

Once fit for feasts of ceremony) and 
said : 

' Whither, fair son ? ' to whom Geraint 
replied, 

' O friend, I seek a harboracje for the 



r therefore and 

nment of a house 
poor, but ever open- 



night.' 

Then Yniol, ' Ente 
partake 

The slender 

Once rich, no 
door'd.' 

' Thanks, venerable friend,' replied 
Geraint ; 

' So that ye do not serve me sparrow- 
hawks 

For supper, I will enter, ' 

With all the passion of a twelve hours' 
fast.' 





The Marriage of Geraint. 



Then sigh'd and smiled the hoary- 
headed Earl, 

And answer'd, ' Graver cause than 
yours is mine 

To curse this hedgerow thief, the 
sparrow-hawk : 

But in, go in ; for save yourself desire 
it, 

We will not touch upon him ev'n in 
jest.' 

Then rode Geraint into the castle 

court, 
His charger trampling many a prickly 

star 
Of sprouted thistle on the broken 

stones. 
He look'd and saw that all was ruinous. 
Here stood a shatter'd archway plumed 

with fern ; 
And here had fall'n a great part of a. 

tower. 
Whole, like a crag that tumbles from 

the cliff. 
And like a crag was gay with wilding 

flowers : 
And high above a piece of turret stair, 
Worn by the feet that now were silent, 

wound 
Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy- 

Claspt the gray walls with hairy-fibred 

arms, 
And suck'd the joining of the stones, 

and look'd 
A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a 

grove. 

And while he waited in the castle 

court, 
The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, 

rang 
Clear thro' the open casement of the 

hall, 
Singing ; and as the sweet voice of a 

bird, 
Heard by the lander in a lonely isle. 
Moves him to think what kind of bird 



s so delicately clear, and 





So the sweet voice of Enid moved 

Geraint; 
And made him like a man abroad at 

morn 
When first the liquid note beloved of 

men 
Comes flying over many a windy 

wave 
To Britain, and in April suddenly 
Breaks from a coppice gemm'd with 

green and red. 
And he suspends his converse with a 

friend. 
Or it may be the labor of his hands. 
To think or say, ' There is the night- 
ingale ; ' 
So fared it with Geraint, who thought 

and said, 
' Here, by God's grace, is the one 

voice for me.' 

It chanced the song that Enid sang 
was one 
Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid 

k. ^^"^ = 

' ' Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and 

lower the proud ; 
Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, 

storm, and cloud ; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love 

nor hate. 

' Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with 

smile or frown ; 
With that wild wheel we go not up or 

down ; 
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are 

great. 



• Smile and 

many la 

Frown and we 



fate. 



; smile, the lords of 

lile, the lords of our 

and master of his 



' Turn, turn thy wheel above the 

staring crowd ; 
Thy wheel and thou are shadows in 

the cloud; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love 

nor hate.' 





of Gcraint. 



' Hark, by the bird's song ye may 
learn the nest,' 

Said Yniol; 'enter quickly.' Enter- 
ing then, 

Right o'er a mount of newly-fallen 
stones. 

The dusky-rafter'd many-cobweb'd 
hall. 

He found an ancient dame in dim bro- 
cade ; 

And near her, like a blossom vermeil- 
white. 

That lightly breaks a faded flower- 
sheath. 

Moved the fair Enid, all in faded 
silk, 

Her daughter. In a moment thought 
Geraint, 

' Here by God's rood is the one maid 
for me.' 

But none spake word except the hoary 
Earl: 

' Enid, the good knight's horse stands 
in the court ; 

Take him to stall, and give him corn, 
and then 

Go to the town and buy us flesh and 
wine ; 

And we will make us merry as we 
may. 

Our hoard is little, but our hearts are 
great.' 

He spake : the Prince, as Enid past 
him, fain 
To follow, strode a stride, but Yniol 

His purple scarf, and held, and said, 

' Forbear 1 
Rest ! the good house, tho' ruin'd, O 

Endures not that her guest should 

serve himself.' 
And reverencing the custom of the 

house 
Geraint, from utter courtesy, forbore. 

So Enid took his charger to the 
stall; 
And after went her way across the 

bridge. 
And reach'd the town, and while the 





Yet spoke together, came again 

one, 
A youth, that following with a costrel 

bore 
The means of goodly welcome, flesh 

and wine. 
And Enid brought sweet cakes to 

make them cheer. 
And in her veil enfolded, manchet 

bread. 
And then, because their hall must 

al.«o serve 
For kitchen, boil'd the flesh, and 

spread the board, 
And stood behind, and waited on the 

three. 
And seeing her so sweet and service- 
able, 
Geraint had longing in him evermore 
To sloop and kiss the tender little 

thumb. 
That crost the trencher as she laid it 

down : 
But after all had eaten, then Geraint, 
For now the wine made summer in 

his veins. 
Let his eye rove in following, or rest 
On Enid at her lowly handmaid-work, 
Now here, now there, about the 

du.sky hall; 
Then suddenly addrest the hoary 

Earl: 



'Fair Host 



Earl, 



pray your 
tell 



This sparrow-hawk, what is he : 

me of him. 
His name ? but no, good faith, I will 

not have it : 
For if he be the knight whom late 

Ride into that new fortress by your 

White from the mason's hand, then 

have I sworn 
From his own lips to have it — I am 

Of Devon — for this morning when the 

Queen 
Sent her own maiden to demand the 

name. 
His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen 

thing, 





The Marriage of Geraint. 



Struck at her with his whip, and she 

retuni'd 
Indignant to the Queen ; and then I 

swore 
That I would track this caitiff to his 

hold, 
And fight and break his pride, and 

have it of him. 
And all unarm'd I rode, and thought 



Arms ni your 



whe 



lad: 



all the men 
iiur of their 



They take the rustic 
bourg 

For the great wave that echoes round 
the world ; 

They would not hear me speak : but 
if ye know 

Where I can light on arms, or if your- 
self 

Should have them, tell me, seeing I 
have sworn 

That I will break his pride and learn 



Then cried Earl Yniol, * Art thou he 

indeed, 
Geraint, a name far-sounded among 

men 
For noble deeds ? and truly I, when 

first 
I saw vou moving by me on the 

bridge, 
Felt ye were somewhat, yea, and by 

your state 
And presence might have guess'd you 

one of those 
That eat in Arthur's hall at Came- 

lot. 
Nor speak I now from foolish flat- 
tery; 
For this dear child hath often heard 

me praise 
Your feats of arms, and often when I 

paused 
Hath ask'd again, and ever loved to 

hear; 
So grateful is the noise of noble 

deeds 
To noble hearts who see but acts of 

wrong : 




Of 




•holly given to brawls 

and wine. 
Drunk even when he woo'd ; and be 

he dead, 
I know not, but he past to the wild 

land. 
The second was your foe, the sparrow- 
hawk, 
My curse, my nephew — I will not let 

his name 
Slip from my lips if I can help it — 

he, 
When I that knew him fierce and 

turbulent 
Refused her to him, then his pride 

awoke ; 
And since the proud man often is the 



He sow'd 



slander in the common 
eft him 



Affirming that his father 

gold. 
And in my charge, which was not 

render'd to him ; 
Bribed with large promises the men 

who served 
About my person, the more easily 
Because my means were somewhat 

broken into 
Thro' open doors and hospitality ; 
Raised my own town against me in 

the night 
Before my Enid's birthday, sack'd 

my house ; 
From mine own earldom foully ousted 

me; 
Built that new fort to overawe my 

friends, 
For truly there are those who love me 

yet; 
And keeps me in this ruinous castle 

here, 
Where doubtless he would put me 

soon to death. 
But that his pride too much despises 



And 
Fori 



lyself sometimes despise my- 

;lf; 

ive let men be, and have their 





The Marriage of Gcraint. 



iAm much too gentle, have not used 

my power : 
Nor know I whether I be very base 
Or very manful, whether very wise 
Or very foolish ; only this I know. 
That whatsoever evil happen to me, 
I seem to suffer nothing heart or 

limb, 
But can endure it all most patiently.' 

' Well said, true heart,' replied 

Geraint, ' but arms, 
That if the sparrow-hawk, this 

nephew, fight 
In next day's tourney I may break his 

pride.' 



And Yniol answer'd, ' Arms, in- 
deed, but old 

And rustv, old and rusty. Prince 
Geraint, 

Are mine, and therefore at thine ask- 
ing, thine. 

But m this tournament can no man 
tilt, 

Except the lady he loves best be 
there. 

Two forks are fixt into the meadow 

And over these is placed a silver 

wand. 
And over that a golden sparrow-hawk, 
The prize of beauty for the fairest 

there. 
And this, what knight soever be in 

field 
Lays claim to for the lady at his side. 
And tilts with my good nephew 

thereupon, 
Who being apt at arms and big of 

bone 
Has ever won it for the lady with 

And toppling over all antagonism 
Has earn'd himself the name of spar- 
row-hawk. 
But thou, that hast no lady, canst not 
fight.' 

To whom Geraint with eyes all 
bright, replied. 
Leaning a little toward him, ' Thy 
leave 1 





Let mc lay lance in rest, O noble 

host, 
For this dear child, because I never 

saw, 
Tho' having seen all beauties of our 

Nor can see elsewhere, anything so 

fair. 
And if I fall her name will yet re- 

Untarnish'd as before ; but if I live, 
So aid me Heaven when at mine 

uttermost, 
As I will make her truly my true 

wife.' 

Then, howsoever patient, Yniol's 
heart 

Danced in his bosom, seeing better 
days. 

And looking round he saw not Enid 
there, 

(Who hearing her own name had 
stol'n away) 

But that old dame, to whom full ten- 
derly 

And fondling all her hand in his 
he said, 

' Mother, a maiden is a tender thing. 

And best by her that bore her under- 
stood. 

Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to 
rest 

Tell her, and prove her heart toward 
the Prince.' 

So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, 
and she 

With frequent smile and nod depart- 
ing found, 

Half disarray'd as to her rest, the 



cheek. 



Whom first she kiss'd on either 

and then 
On either shining shoulder laid a hand. 
And kept her oft and gazed upon her 

face, 
And told her all their converse in the 

hall. 
Proving her heart : but never lis 

shade 
Coursed one another more o 

ground 





The Marriage of Gcraint. 



red 



Beneath a troubled heaven, ths 

and pale 
Across the face of Enid hearing her ; 
While slowly falling as a scale that 

falls, 
When weight is added only grain by 

grain, 
Sank her sweet head upon her gentle 

breast ; 
Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a 

word. 
Rapt in the fear and in the wonder of 



So moving without 
She found no rest, an 



swer to her 
;ver fail'd to 



The quiet night into her blood, but lay 
Contemplating her own imworthiness ; 
And when the pale and bloodless east 

began 
To quicken to the sun, arose, and 

raised 
Her mother too, and hand in hand 

they moved 
Down to the meadow where the jousts 

were held, 
And waited there for Yniol and 

Geraint. 

And thither came the twain, and 

when Geraint 
Beheld her first in field, awaiting him. 
He felt, were she the prize of bodily 

force, 
Himself beyond the rest pushing could 

move 
The chair of Idris. Yniol's rusted 

arms 
Were on his princely person, but thro' 

these 
Princelike his bearing shone; and 

enant knights 
And ladies came, and by and by the 

Flow'd in, and settling circled all the 

lists. 
And there they fixt the forks into the 

ground,' 
And over these thev placed the silver 





Then Yniol's nephew, after trumpet 

blown. 
Spake to the lady with him and pro- 

claim'd, 
' Advance and take, as fairest of the 

fair, 
What I these two years past have won 

for thee. 
The prize of beauty.' Loudlv spake 

the Prince, 
' Forbear : there is a worthier,' and the 

knight 
With some surprise and thrice as 

much disdain 
Turn'd, and beheld the four, and all 

his face 
Glow'd like the heart of a great fire at 

Yule, 
So burnt he was with passion, crying 

' Do battle for it then,' no more ; and 

thrice 
They clash'd together, and thrice they 

brake their spears. 
Then each, dishorsed and drawing, 

lash'd at each 
So often and with such blows, that all 

the crowd 
Wonder'd, and now and then from dis- 

There came a clapping as of phantom 

hands. 
So twice they fought, and twice they 

breathed, and still 
The dew of their great labor, and the 

blood 
Of their strong bodies, flowing, drain'd 

their force. 
But cither's force was match'd till 

Yniol's cry, 
' Remember that great insult done the 

Queen,' 
Increased Geraint's, who heaved his 

blade aloft. 
And crack'd the helmet thro', and bit 

the bone. 
And fell'd him, and set foot upon his 



And said, ' Thy name .' ' To 

the fallen man 
Made answer, groaning, ' Edvrn, son 

of Nudd I 
Ashamed am I that I should tell it thee. 




^^ 



The Marriage of Geraint. 



My pride is broken : men have seen 

my fall.' 
' Then, Edyrn, son of Nudd,' replied 

Geraint, 
' These two things shalt thou do, or 

else thou diest. 
First, thou thyself, with damsel and 

with dwarf, 
Shalt ride to Arthur's court, and com- 
ing there, 
Crave jjardon for that insult done the 

Queen, 
And shalt abide her judgment on it ; 

next, 
Thou shalt give back their earldom to 

thy kin. 
These two things shalt thou do, or thou 

Shalt die.' 
And Edyrn answer'd, 'These things 

will I do. 
For I have never yet been overthrown, 
And thou hast overthrown me, and my 

pride 
Is broken down, for Enid sees mv 



And 



ill!' 

ing up, he rode to Arthur 

forgave hii 



And there the Qi 
easily. 

And being young, he changed and 
came to loathe 

His crime of traitor, slowly drew him- 
self 

Bright from his old dark lite, and fell 
at last 

In the great battle fighting for the 
King. 

But when the third day from the 

Made a low splendor in the world, and 
wings 

Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay 

With her fair head in the dim-yellow 
light. 

Among the dancing shadows of the 
birds. 

Woke and bethought her of her prom- 
ise given 

No later than last eve to Prince 



.So bent he seem'd on going the third 





He would not leave her, till her prom- 

To ride with him this morning to the 
court. 

And there be made known to the 
stately Queen, 

And there be wedded with all cere- 
mony. 

At this she cast her eyes upon her 
dress. 

And thought it never yet had look'd so 
mean. 

For as a leaf in mid-November is 

To what it was in mid-October, seem'd 

The dress that now she look'd on to 
the dress 

She look'd on ere the coming of 
Geraint. 

And still she look'd, and still the ter- 
ror grew 

Of that strange bright and dreadful 
thing, a court. 

All staring at her in her faded silk : 

And softly to her own sweet heart she 
said: 

'This noble prince who won our 
earldom back. 

So splendid in his acts and his attire. 

Sweet heaven, how much I shall dis- 
credit him I 

Would he could tarry with us here 
awhile. 

But being so beholden to the Prince, 

It were but little grace in any of us. 

Bent as he seem'd on going this third 
day. 

To seek a second favor at his hands. 

Yet if he could but tarry a day or 
two. 

Myself would work eye dim, and finger 
lame, 

Far liefer than so much discredit him.' 

And Enid fell in longing for a dress 
All branch'd and flower'd with gold, a 

costly gift 
Of her good mother, given her on the 

night 
Before her birthday, three sad years 

ago. 
That night of fire, when Edyrn sack'd 

their house. 





The Marriage of Gerainf. 



1 ihe 



And scatter'd 
winds : 
For while the mother 



had to all the 
show'd it, and 

ng and admiring it, the 

work . 
To both appear'd so costly, rose a cry 
That Edyrn's men were on them, and 

they fled 
With little save the jewels they had 

Which being sold and sold had bought 

them bread : 
And Edyrn's men had caught them in 

their flight, 
And placed them in this ruin ; and 

she wish'd 
The Prince had found her in her 

ancient liome ; 
Then let her fancy flit across the past. 
And roam the goodly places that she 

knew ; 
And last bethought her how she used 

to watch, 
Near that old home, a pool of golden 

carp ; 
And one was patch'd and blurr'd and 

lustreless 
Among his burnish'd brethren of the 

pool ; 
And half asleep she made comparison 
Of that and these to her own faded 

self 
And the gay court, and fell asleep 

And dreamt herself was such a faded 

form 
Among her burnish'd sisters of the 

pool ; 
But this was in the garden of a king ; 
And [ho' she lay dark in the pool, she 

knew 
That all was bright; that all about 

were birds 
Df sunnv plume in gilded trellis-work ; 
That all the turf was rich in plots that 

Ibok'd 
Each like a garnet or a turkis in it ; 
And lords and ladies of the high 




In silver tis 


suetalkingthings of state ; 


And childre 


n of the King in cloth of 


gold 






Glanced at the doors or gambol'd 

down the walks ; 
And while she thought ' They will not 

see me,' came 
A stately queen whose name was 

And all the children in their cloth of 

gold 
Ran to her, crying, ' If we have fish at 

all 
Let them be gold ; and charge the 

gardeners now 
To pick the faded creature from the 

pool. 
And cast it on the niixen that il 

die.' 
And therewithal 

on her. 
And Enid started waking, 

heart 
All overshadow'd by the foolish 

dream. 
And lo! it was her mother grasping 

her 
To get her well awake ; and in her 

hand 
A suit of bright apparel, which she 

laid 
Flat on the couch, and spoke exult- 

ingly: 

' See here, my child, how fresh the 

colors look. 
How fast they hold like colors of a 

shell 
That keeps the wear and polish of the 



came and seized 
ith her 



ver yet was worn, I 



Why not? 

trow : 
Look on it, child, and tell me if ye 

know it.' 

And Enid look'd, but all confused 

at first. 
Could scarce divide it from her foolish 

dream : 
Then suddenly she knew it and 

rejoiced, 
And answer'd, ' Yea, I know it ; your 

good gift, 
So sadly lost on that unhappy 
Your own good gift ! ' ' Yea, 

said the dame, 





'He thrice had sent 



G.\T:^&:'—Page ( 




The Marriage of Geraint. 



' And gladly given again this happy 

morn. 
For when the jousts were ended 

yesterday, 
Went Yniol thro' the town, and every- 
where 
He found the sack and plunder of our 

house 
All scatter'd thro' the houses of the 

town ; 
And gave command that all which 

once was ours 
Should now be ours again : and yester- 

eve, 
While ye were talking sweetly with 

your Prince, 
Came one with this and laid it in my 

hand, 
For love or fear, or seeking favor of 

us, 
Because we have our earldom back 
ain. 

)t tell you of 

But kept it for a sweet surprise at 

morn. 
Yea, truly is it not a sweet surprise ? 
For I myself unwillingly have worn 
My faded suit, as you, my child, have 

yours. 
And howsoever patient, Yniol his. 
Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly 

house. 
With store of rich apparel, sumptuous 

fare, 
And page, and maid, and squire, and 

seneschal, 
And pastime both of hawk and hound, 

and all 
That appertains to noble mainte- 

Yea, and he brought me to a goodly 

house ; 
But since our fortune swerved from 

sun to shade, 
And all thro' that young traitor, cruel 

need 
Constrain'd us, but a better time has 

come ; 
So clothe yourself in this, that better 

fits' 
Our mended fortunes and a Prince's 

bride: 





For tho' ye won the prize of fairest 

fair. 
And tho' I heard him call you fairest 

fair, 
Let never maiden think, however 

fair, 
She is not fairer in new clothes than 

old. 
And should some great court-lady say, 

the Prince 
Hath pick'd a ragged-robin from the 

hedge,- 
And like a madman brought her to the 

Then were ye shamed, and, worse, 

might shame the Prince 
To whom we are beholden ; but I 

know. 
When my dear child is set forth at her 

best, 
That neither court nor country, tho' 

they sought 
Thro' all the provinces like those of 

old 
That lighted on Queen Esther, has 

her match.' 

Here ceased the kindly mother out 

of breath ; 
And Enid listen'd brightening as she 

lay; 
Then, as the white and glittering star 

of morn 
Parts from a bank of snow, and by 

and by 
Slips into golden cloud, the maiden 



And left he 



liden ( 



ch, and robed 



Help'd by the mother's careful hand 

and eye, 
Without a mirror, in the gorgeous 

gown ; 
Who, after, turn'd her daughter 

round, and said. 
She never yet had seen her half so 

fair ; 
And call'd her like that maiden in the 

tale, 
Whom Gwydion made by glamor out 

of flowers. 
And sweeter than the bride of Cassive- 




The Marriage of Geraint. 



Flur, for whose love the Roman 

Caesar first 
Invaded Britain, ' But we beat him 

back, 
As this great Prince invaded us, and 

Not beat him back, but welcomed him 

with joy. 
And I can scarcely ride with you to 

For old am I, and rough the ways and 

wild; 
But Yniol goes, and I £ull oft shall 

dream 
I see my princess as I see her now, 
Clothed with my gift, and gay among 

the gay.' 

But while the women thus rejoiced, 

Geraint 
Woke where he slept in the high hall, 

and call'd 
For Enid, and when Yniol made 

report 
Of that good mother making Enid gay 
In such apparel as might well beseem 
His princess, or indeed the stately 

Queen, 
He answer'd : ' Earl, entreat her by 

my love, 
Albeit I give no reason but my wish. 
That she ride with me in her faded 

silk.' 
Yniol with that hard message went ; 

it fell 
Like flaws in summer laying lusty 

corn ; 
For Enid, all abash'd she knew not 

why. 
Dared not to glance at her good 

mother's face, 
But silently, in all obedience. 
Her mother silent too, nor helping her. 
Laid from her limbs the costly- 

broider'd gift. 
And robed them in her ancient suit 



joiced 
More than Geraint to greet her thus 




As careful robi 

toil. 
Made her cheek bu 

lid fall, 
But rested with he 

fied; 
Then seeing cloud upon the mother's 

Her by both hands he caught, and 
sweetly said, 

' O my new mother, be not wroth 

or grieved 
At thy new son, for my petition to 

her. 
When late 1 left Caerleon, our great 

Queen, 
In words whose echo lasts, they were 

so sweet, 
Made promise, that whatever bride I 

brought. 
Herself would clothe her like the sun 

in Heaven. 
Thereafter, when I reach 'd this ruin'd 

hall, 
Beholding one so bright in dark 

estate, 
I vow'd that could I gain her, our fair 

Queen, 
No hand but hers, should make your 

Enid burst 
Sunlike from cloud — and likewise 

thought perhaps. 
That service done so graciously would 

bind 
The two together ; fain I would the 

Should love each other : how can 

Enid find 
A nobler friend? Another thought 

was mine ; 
I came among you here so suddenly. 
That the' her gentle presence at the 

Might well have served for proof that 
I was loved, 

I doubted whether daughter's tender- 
ness, 

Or easy nature, might not let itself 

Be moulded by your wishes for her 
weal ; 

Or whether some false sense in her 
own self 





Geraint and Enid. 



Of my contrasting brightness, over- 
bore 

Her fancy dwelling in this dusky hall ; 

And such a sense might make her 
long for court 

And all its perilous glories : and I 
thought, 

That could I someway prove such 
force in her 

Link'd with such love for me, that at 
a word 

(No reason given her) she could cast 

A splendor dear to women, new to 

her, 
And therefore dearer ; or if not so 

new, 
Yet therefore tenfold dearer by the 

power 
Of intermitted usage ; then I felt 



Tha 



could I 



rock 



and 



Fixt on her faith. Now, therefore, I 

do rest, 
A prophet certain of my prophecy. 
That never shadow of mistrust can 

cross 
Between us. Grant me pardon for 

my thoughts : 
And for my strange petition I will 

make 
Amends hereafter by some gaudy-day. 
When your fair child shall wear your 

costly gift 
Beside your own warm hearth, with, 

on her knees. 
Who knows t another gift of the high 

God, 
Which, maybe, shall have learn'd to 

lisp you thanks.' 

He spoke : the mother smiled, but 

half in tears. 
Then brought a mantle down and 

wrapt her in it, 
And claspt and kiss'd her, and they 

rode away. 

Now thrice that morning Guinevere 
had climb'd 
The giant tower, from whose high 

they say, 
Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset, 





And white sails flying on the yellow sea; 
But not to goodly hill or yellow sea 
Look'd the f.\ir Queen, but up the 

vale of Usk, 
By the flat meadow, till she saw them 

come; 
And then descending met them at the 

gates. 
Embraced her with all welcome as a 

friend. 
And did her honor as the Prince's 

bride. 
And clothed her for her bridals like 

the sun ; 
And all that week was old Caerleon 

gay. 

For by the hands of Dubric, the high 

saint. 
They twain were wedded with all 

ceremony. 

And this was on the last year's 

Whitsuntide. 
But Enid ever kept the faded silk, 
Remembering how first he came on 

her, 
Drest in that dress, and how he loved 

her in it, 
And all her foolish fears about the 

nress. 
And all his journey toward her, as 

himself 
Had told her, and their coming to the 



And now this morning when he said 

to her, 
' Put on your worst and meanest 

dress,' she found 
And took it, and array'd herself there- 



GERAINT AND ENID. 

O PURBLIND race of miserable m 
How many among us at this 

hour 
Do forge a life-long trouble for our- 

.■;elves. 
By taking true for false, or false for 

true; 




Geraiiit and Enid. 



Here, thro' the feeble twilight of this 

world 
Groping, how many, until we pass and 

reach 
That other, where we see as we are 



So fared it with Geraint, who issu- 
ing forth 
That morning, when they both had 

Perhaps because he loved her passion- 
ately. 
And felt that tempest brooding round 

his heart, 
Which, if he spoke at all, would 

break perforce 
Upon a head so dear in thunder, said : 
' Not at my side. I charge thee ride 

before, 
Ever a good way on before; and this 
I charge thee, on thy duty as a wife. 
Whatever happens, not to speak to 



No, 



ne, 



,vord 1 ' and Enid 



And forth they rode, but scarce three 

paces on. 
When crying out, ' Effeminate as I am, 
I will not fight my way with gilded 



All shall be \ 



he loosed ; 



ighty 



Hung at his belt, and hurl'd it toward 

the squire. 
So the last sight that Enid had of 

home 
Was all the marble threshold flashing. 

With gold and scatter'd coinage, and 

the squire 
Chafing his shoulder: then he cried 

again, 
'To the wilds!' and Enid leading 

down the tracks 
Thro' which he bad her lead him on, 

they past 
The marches, and by bandit-haunted 

holds, 
Gray swamps and pools, waste places 

of the hern. 
And wildernesses, perilous paths, they 

rode : 





Round was their pace 
slacken'd soon : 

A stranger meeting them had surely 
thought 

They rode so slowly and they look'd 
so pale, 

That each had sufter'd some e,\ceed- 
ing wrong. 

For he was ever saying to himself, 

' O I that wasted time to tend upon 
her, 

To compass her with sweet observ- 
ances. 

To dress her beautifully and keep her 



And there he broke the 

his heart 
Abruptly, as a'man upon his tongue 
May break it, when his passion 



And she was ever praying the sweet 

heavens 
To save her dear lord whole from any 

wound. 
And ever in her mind she cast about 
For that unnoticed failing in herself. 
Which made him look so cloudy and 

so cold ; 
Till the great plover's human whistle 

amazed 
Her heart, and glancing round the 

waste she fear'd 
In everv wavering brake an ambus- 

cide. 
Then thought again, ' If there be such 

I might amend it by the grace of 

" Heaven, 
If he would only speak and tell me 



of the 



But when the fourth pa 

day was gone. 
Then Enid was aware of three tall 

knights 
On horseback, wholly arm'd, behind a 

rock 
In shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs 

.all; 
And heard one crying to his fellows, 

' Look. 
Here comes a Laggard hangmg down 

his head. 





Geraint and Enid. 



Who seems no bolder than a beaten 

hound ; 
Come, we will slay him and will have 

his horse 
And armor, and his damsel shall be 

ours.' 

Then Enid ponder' d in her heart, 

and said : 
' I will go back a little to my lord, 
And I will tell hira all their caitiff 

talk ; 
For, be he wroth even to slaying me. 
Far liefer by his dear hand had I 

die. 
Than that my lord should suffer loss 

or shame.' 



Then she went back 



paces of 



Met his full frown timidly firm, and 

said; 
' My lord, I saw three bandits by the 

rock 
Waiting to fall on you, and heard 

them boast 
That they would slay you, and possess 

And armor, and your damsel should 
be theirs.' 



He made a 

I wish 

Your warning 



ithful answer : ' Did 
- your silence ? one 



I laid upon you, not to speak to me. 

And thus ye keep it! Well then, 
look — for now, 

Whether ye wish me victory or de- 
feat, 

Long for my life, or hunger for my 
death. 

Yourself shall see my vigor is not 
lost.' 

Then Enid waited pale and sorrow- 

And down upon him bare the bandit 

three. 
And at the midmost charging, Prince 

Geraint 
Drave the long spear' a cubit thro' 

his breast 




And out beyond ; and then against his 

brace 
Of comrades, each of whom had 

broken on him 
A lance that splinter'd like an icicle, 
Swung from his brand a windy buffet 




out 



■ight, 



left, and 



Once, twice, 

stunn'd the twam 
Or slew them, and dismounting like 

That skins the wild beast after slay- 
ing him, 

Stript from the three dead wolves of 
woman born 

The three gay suits of armor which 
they wore. 

And let the bodies lie, but bound 
the suits 

Of armor on their horses, each on each. 

And tied the bridle-reins of all the 
three 

Together, and said to her, ' drive them 



He foUow'd nearer : ruth began to 

work 
Against his anger in him, while he 

watch' d 
The being he loved best in all the 

world. 
With difficulty in mild obedience 
Driving them on : he fain had spoken 

to her. 
And loosed in words of sudden fire 

the wrath 
And smoulder'd wrong that burnt him 

all within ; 
But evermore it seem'd an easier 

thing 
At once without remorse to strike 

her dead. 
Than to cry ' Halt,' and to her own 

bright face 
Accuse her of the least immodesty: 
And thus tongue-tied, it made him 

wroth the more 
That she could speak whom his own 

ear had heard 
Call herself false : and suffering thus 

he made 





Gerainf and Enid. 



age : but in scarce longer 

Than at Caerleon the full-tided Usk, 
Before he turn to fall seaward again, 
Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, 

behold 
In the first shallow shade of a deep 

wood, 
Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted 

oaks, 
Three other horsemen waiting, wholly 

arm'd. 
Whereof one seem'd far larger than 

her lord. 
And shook her pulses, crying, ' Look, 

Three horses and three goodly suits 

of arms. 
And all in charge of whom ? a girl : 

set on.' 
' Nay,' said the second, ' yonder comes 

a knight.' 
The third, ' A craven ; how he hangs 

The giant answer'd merrily, 'Yea, 

but one ? 
Wait here, and when he passes fall 

upon him.' 

And Enid ponder'd in her heart and 
said, 
' I will abide the coming of my lord. 
And I will tell him all their villainy. 
My lord is weary with the fight before. 
And they will fall upon him una- 

I needs must disobey him for his 

good ; 
How should I dare obey him to his 

harm ? 
Needs must I speak, and tho' he kill 

me for it, 
I save a life dearer to me than mine.' 

And she abode his coming, and 

said to him 
With timid firmness, ' Have I leave 

to speak ? ' 
He said, ' Ye take it, speaking,' and 

she spoke. 

villains yonder in. 




And each of them is wholly arm'd, 

and one 
Is larger-limb'd than you are, and 

they say 
That they will fall upon you while 

ye pass.' 




wrathful 
the 
ib'd 

And all at once should sally out upon 
le me so 



To which he flung 

answer back : 
'And if there were an hundred 

wood, 
And every man were larger-1 



I swear it would 

much 
As you that not obey me. Stand 

aside. 
And if I fall, cleave to the better 

man.' 

And Enid stood aside to wait the 

Not dare to watch the combat, only 
breathe 

Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a 
breath. 

And he, she dreaded most, bare down 
upon him. 

Aim'd at the helm, his lance err'd; 
but Geraint's, 

A little in the late encounter strain'd, 

Struck thro' the bulky bandit's corse- 
let home. 

And then brake short, and down his 
enemy roU'd, 

And there lay still; as he that tells 
the tale 

Saw once a great piece of a promon- 
tory. 

That had a sapling growing on it, 
slide 

From the long shore-cliff's windy walls 
to the beach. 

And there lie still, and yet the sap- 
ling grew: 

So lay the man transfixt. His craven 
pair 

Of comrades making slowlier at the 
Prince, 

When now they saw their bulwark 
fallen, stood ; 





Geraint and Enid. 



On whom the victor, to confound them 

more, 
Spurr'd with his terrible war-cry ; for 

That listens near a torrent mountain- 
brook. 
All thro' the crash of the near cata- 
ract hears 
Thedrumming thunder of the hugerfall 
At distance, were the soldiers wont to 

hear 
His voice in battle, and be kindled by it, 
And foemen scared, like that false 

pair who turn'd 
Flying, but, overtaken, died the death 
Themselves had wrought on many an 
innocent. 

Thereon Geraint, dismounting, 

pick'd the lance 
That pleased him best, and drew from 

those dead wolves 
Their three gay suits of armor, each 

from each, 
And bound them on their horses, each 

on each. 
And tied the bridle-reins of all the 

three 
Together, and said to her, ' Drive 

them on 
Before you,' and she drove them thro' 

the wood. 

He follow'd nearer still : the pain 

To keep them in the wild ways of the 

wood. 
Two sets of three laden with jingling 

arms, 
Together, served a little to disedge 
The sharpness of that pain about her 

heart : 
And they themselves, like creatures 

gently born 
But into bad hands fall'n, and now so 

long 
By bandits groom'd, prick'd their light 

ears, and felt 
Her low firm voice and tender govern- 





And issuing under open heavens 

beheld 
A little town with towers, upon a rock, 
And close beneath, a meadow gemlike 

chased 
In the brown wild, and mowers mow- 
ing in it: 
And down a rocky pathway from the 

place 
There came a fair-hair'd youth, that 

in his hand 
Bare victual for the mowers : and Ger- 
aint 
Had ruth again on Enid looking pale : 
Then, moving downward to the 

meadow ground. 
He, when the fair-hair'd youth came 

by him, said, 
' Friend, let her eat ; the damsel is so 

faint.* 
'Yea, willingly,' replied the youth; 

' and thou, 
My lord, eat also, tho' the fare is 

coarse. 
And only meet for mowers ; ' then set 

down 
His basket, and dismounting on the 

sward 
They let the horses graze, and ate 

themselves. 
And Enid took a little delicately. 
Less having .stomach for it than desire 
To clo.se with her lord's pleasure ; 

but Geraint 
Ate all the mowers' victual unawares. 
And when he found all empty, was 

amazed; 
And' Boy,' said he, 'I have eaten all, 

but take 
A horse and arms for guerdon ; choose 

the best.' 
He, reddening in extremity of 

delight, 
' My lord, you overpay me fifty-fold.' 
' Ye will be all the wealthier,' cried 

the Prince. 
' I take it as free gift, then,' said the 

boy, 
' Not guerdon ; for myself can easily. 
While your good damsel rests, i 

and fetch 
Fresh victual for these mowers of our 





Geraint and Enid. 



are his, and all the field 



And I myself am his ; and I will tell 
him 

How great a man thou art : he loves 
to know 

When men o£ mark are in his terri- 
tory : 

And he will have thee to his palace 
here, 

And serve thee costlier than with 
mowers' fare.' 

Then said Geraint, ' I wish no bet- 
ter fare : 
I never ate with angrier appetite 
Than when I left your mowers dinner- 



ch 'of 



And into no Earl's palace will I 
I know, God knows, 

palaces ! 

And if he want me, let him come to me. 
But hire us some fair chamber for the 

night, 
And stalling for the horses, and 

return 
With victual for these men, and let 

us know.' 

' Yea, my kind lord,' said the glad 
youth, and went. 
Held his head high, and thought him- 
self a knight. 
And up the rocky pathway disappear'd. 
Leading the horse, and they were left 
alone. 

But when the Prince had brought 

his errant eyes 
Home from the rock, sideways he let 

them glance 
At Enid, where she droopt: his own 

false doom. 
That shadow of mistrust should never 

Betwixt them, came upon him, and he 
sigh'd; 

Then with another humorous ruth re- 
mark' 

The lusty mowers laboring dinnerless. 

And watch'd the sun blaze on the 
turning scythe, 

And after nodded sleepily in the heat. 





But she, remembering her old 

hall. 
And all the windy clamor of the daws 
About her hollow turret, pluck'd the 

grass 
There growing longest by the meadow's 

edge. 
And into many a listless annulet, 
Now over, now beneath her marriage 

ring, 
Wove and unwove it, till the boy 

And told them of a chamber, and 

they went ; 
Where, after saying to her, ' If ye will, 
Call for the woman of the house,' to 

which 
She answer'd, ' Thanks, my lord ; ' 

the two remain'd 
Apart by all the chamber's width, and 

As creatures voiceless thro' the fault 

of birth, 
Or two wild men supporters of a 

shield, 
Painted, who stare at open space, nor 

glance 
The one at other, parted by the shield. 

On a sudden, many a voice along 
the street. 
And heel against the pavement echo- 
ing, burst 
Their drowse; and either started 

while the door, 
Push'd from without, drave backward 

to the wall. 
And midmost of a rout of roisterers. 
Femininely fair and dissolutely pale. 
Her suitor in old years before Geraint, 
Enter'd, the wild lord of the place, 

Limours. 
He moving up with pliant courtliness. 
Greeted Geraint full face, but stealth- 
ily. 
In the mid-warmth of welcome and 

graspt hand. 
Found Enid with the corner of his eye. 
And knew her sitting sad and solitarv. 
Then cried Geraint for wine and 

goodly cheer 
To feed the sudden guest, and sump- 
tuously 





Geraint and Enid. 



According to his fashion, bad the host 
Call in what men soever were his 

friends, 
And feast with these in honor of their 



And wine and food were brought, 

and Earl Limours 
Drank till he jested with all ease, and 

told 
Free tales, and took the word and 

play'd upon it, 
And inade it of two colors; for his 

talk, 
When wine and free companions 

kindled him. 
Was wont to glance and sparkle like 

a gem 
Of fifty facets; thus he moved the 

To laughter and his comrades to 

applause. 
Then, when the Prince was merry, 

ask'd Limours, 
' Your leave, my lord, to cross the 

room, and speak 
To your good damsel there who sits 

apart, 
And seems so lonely?' 'My free 

leave,' he said ; 
' Get her to speak : she doth not speak 

Then rose Limours, and looking at 

his feet. 
Like him who tries the bridge he 

fears may fail, 
Crost and came near, lifted adoring 

eyes, 
Bow'dat her side and utter'd whisper- 

ingly : 

* Enid, the pilot star of my lone life, 
Enid, my early and my only love, 
Enid, the loss of whom hath turn'd 

me wild— 
What chance is this? how is it I see 

you here ? 
Ye are in my power at last, are in my 

power. 
Yet fear me not : I call mine own 

self wild, 





But keep a touch of 
Here in the heart of 

ness. 
I thought, but that your father came 

between. 
In former days you saw me favorably. 
And if it were so do not keep it 

back : 
Make me a little happier : let me 

know it : 
Owe you me nothing for a life half- 
Yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all 

you are. 
And, Enid, you and he, I see with 

joy. 
Ye sit apart, you do not speak to him. 
You come with no attendance, page 

or maid. 
To serve you — doth he love you as of 

For, call it lovers' quarrels, yet I 

know 
Tho' men may bicker with the things 

they love, 
They would not make them laughable 

in all eyes, 
Not while they loved them; and 

your wretched dress, 
A wretched insult on you, dumbly 

spealcs 
Your story, that this man loves you 

no more. 
Your beauty is no beauty to him now : 
A common chance — right well I know 

it— pall'd— 
For I know men : nor will ye win 

him back. 
For the man's love once gone never 

But here is one who loves you as of old ; 
With more exceeding passion than of 

old: 
Good, speak the word : my followers 

ring him round : 
He sits unarm'd ; I hold a finger up ; 
They understand : nay ; I do not 

mean blood : 
Nor need ye look so scared at what I 

My malice is no deeper than a moat. 
No stronger than a wall : there is the 
keep ; 





Geraint and Enid. 



He shall not cross us more ; speak 

but the word : 
Or speak it not ; but then by Him that 

made me 
The one true lover whom you ever 

own'd, 
I will make use of all the power I 



the madness of that 



hav 



O pard 

1 

Wheni 



first I parted from thee, moves 
me yet.' 

At this the tender sound of his own 

voice 
And sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it, 
Made his eye moist ; but Enid fear'd 

his eyes, 
Moist as they were, wine-heated from 

the feast ; 
And answer'd with such craft as 

women use. 
Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a 

chance 
That breaks upon them perilously, 

and said : 



in former 
ne, come 



' Earl, if you love me a; 
years. 

And do not practise on 
with morn. 

And snatch me from him as by vio- 
lence ; 

Leave me to-night : I am weary to 
the death.' 

Low at leave-taking, with his brand- 
ish'd plume 

Brushing his instep, bow'd the all- 
amorous Earl, 

And tbe stout Prince bad him a loud 
good-night. 

He moving homeward babbled to his 
men. 

How Enid never loved a man but 
him. 

Nor cared a broken egg-shell for her 
lord. 

But Enid left alone with Prince Ger- 
aint, 
Debating his command of silence 





And that she now perforce 

late it. 
Held commune with hers 

while she held 
He fell asleep, and Enid had no 

heart 
To wake him, but hung o'er him, 

wholly pleased 
To find him yet unwounded after 

fight. 
And hear him breathing low and 

equally. 
Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, 

heap'd 
The pieces of his armor in one place, 
All to be there against a sudden 

need ; 
Then dozed awhile herself, but over- 

toil'd 
By that day's grief and travel, ever- 



rootless thorn, 
horrible preci- 



Seem'd catching 

and then 
Went slipping d 

pices. 
And strongly striking out her limbs 

awoke ; 
Then thought she heard the wild Earl 

at the door. 
With all his rout of random followers, 
Sound on a dreadful trumpet, sum- 



iing 



her 



;d cock shouting to 

the light. 
As the gray dawn stole o'er the dewy 

world. 
And glimmer'd on his armor in the 

room. 
And once again she rose to look at 



tigling, 



But touch'd it unaw; 

Fell, and he started up and stared at 

her. 
Then breaking his command of silence 

given. 
She told him all that Earl Limours 

had said, 
Except the passage that he loved her 

Nor left untold the craft herself had 

used ; 
But ended with apology so sweet. 





Geraint and Enid. 



So justified by that necessity, 

That tho' he thought 'was it for 

him she wept 
In Devon ? ' he but gave a wrathful 

groan, 
Saying, ' Your sweet faces make good 

fellows fools 
And traitors. Call the host and bid 

him bring 
Charger and palfrey.' So she glided 

Among the heavy breathings of the 

house. 
And like a household Spirit at the 

Beat, till she woke the sleepers, and 

return'd : 
Then tending her rough lord, tho' all 



I'd he found the host 



Five horses and their armors ; ' and 

the host 
Suddenly honest, answer'd in amaze, 
' My lord, I scarce have spent the 

worth of one ! ' 
' Ye will be all the wealthier,' said the 

Prince, 
And then to Enid, ' Forward ! and 

to-day 
I charge you, Enid, more especially. 
What thing soever ye may hear, or 

see. 
Or fancy (tho' I count it of small use 
To charge you) that ye speak not but 



•'d, ' Y£ 



lord. 



And Enid answi 
I know 

Your wish, and would obey ; but rid- 
ing first, 

I hear the violent threats you do not 
hear, 

I see the danger which you cannot 



mg, that 





Almost beyond me : yet I would 
obey.' 
' Yea so,' said he, ' do it : be not too 

Seeing that ye are wedded to a man, 
Not all mismated with a yawning 

But one with arms to guard his head 

and yours, 
With eyes to find you out however 

far. 
And ears to hear you even in his 

dreams.' 

AVith that he turn'd and look'd as 
keenly at her 

As careful robins eye the delver's toil ; 

And that within her, which a wanton 
fool. 

Or hasty judger would have call'd her 
guilt. 

Made her cheek burn and either eye- 
lid fall. 

And Geraint look'd and was not satis- 
fied. 

Then forward by a way which, 

beaten broad. 
Led from the territory of false 

Limours 
To the waste earldom of another earl, 
Doorm, whom his shaking vassals 

call'd the Bull, 
Went Enid with her sullen follower 

Once she look'd back, and when she 

saw him ride 
More near by many a rood than yes- 
It wellnigh made her cheerful ; till 

Geraint 
Waving an angry hand as who should 

say 
' Ye watch me,' sadden'd all her heart 

again. 
But wh^e the su 

blade 
The sound of many a heavily-galloping 

hoof 
Smote on her ear, and turning round 

Dust, and the points of lances bicker 



• beat a dewy 





Gcraint and Enid. 



Then not to disobey her lord's behest, 
And yet to give him warning, for he 

rode 
As if he heard not, moving back she 

held 
Her finger up, and pointed to the 



At which the warrior in his obstinacy, 

Because she kept the letter of his 
word, 

Was in a manner pleased, and turn- 
ing, stood. 

And in a moment after, wild Limours, 

Borne on a black horse, like a thunder- 
cloud 

Whose skirts are loosen'd by the 
breaking storm, 

Half ridden off with by the thing he 
rode, 

And all in passion uttering a dry 
shriek, 

Dash'd on Geraint, who closed with 
him, and bore 

Down by the length of lance and arm 
beyond 

The crupper, and so left him stunn'd 
or dead, 

And overthrew the next that follow'd 
him, 

And blindly rush'd on all the rout 
behind. 

But at the flash and motion of the man 

They vanish'd panic-stricken, like a 
shoal 

Of darting fish, that on 



Adovvn the crystal dykes at Camelot 
Come slipping o'er their shadows on 

the sand, 
But if a man who stands upon the 

brink 
But lift a shining hand against the 

sun. 
There is not left the twinkle of a fin 
Betwixt the cressy islets white in 

flower'; 
So, scared but at the motion of the 

man, 
Fled all the boon companions of the 

Earl, 
And left him lying in the public way ; 

nish friendships only made in 





Then like a stormy sunlight smiled 

Geraint, 
Who saw the chargers of the two that 

fell 
Start from their fallen lords, and 

wildly fly, 
Mixt with the flyers. ' Horse and 

man,' he said, 
' All of one mind and all right-honest 

friends ! 
Not a hoof left : and I methinks till 

now 
Was honest — paid with horses and 

with arms ; 
I cannot steal or plunder, no nor beg : 
And so what say ye, shall we strip 

him there 
Your lover .' has your palfrey heart 

To bear his armor ? shall we fast, or 
dine ? 

No ? — then do thou, being right hon- 
est, pray 

That we may meet the horsemen of 
Earl Doorm, 

I too would still be honest.' Thus he 
said : 

And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins. 

And answering not one word, she led 
the way. 

But as a man to whom a dreadful 

Falls in a far land and he knows it not. 
But coming back he learns it, and the 

loss 
So pains him that he sickens nigh to 

death ; 
So fared it with Geraint, who being 

prick'd 
In combat with the follower of 

Limours, 
Bled underneath his armor secretly. 
And so rode on, nor told his gentle 

wife 
What ail'd him, hardly knowing it 

himself. 
Till his eve darken'd and his helmet 



Tho' happily down on a bank of 
grass. 





Geraint and Enid. 



The Prince, without a word, from his 
horse fell. 

And Enid heard the clashing of his 

fall. 
Suddenly came, and at his side all 

pale 
Dismounting, loosed the fastenings of 

his arms. 
Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue 

eye 
Moisten, till she had lighted on his 

wound. 
And tearing off her veil of faded silk 
Had bared her forehead to the blister- 
ing sun. 
And swathed the hurt that drain'd her 

dear lord's life. 
Then after all was done that hand 

could do. 
She rested, and her desolation came 
Upon her, and she wept beside the 

way. 

And many past, but none regarded 
her. 

For in that realm of lawless turbu- 
lence, 

A woman weeping for her raurder'd 

Was cared as much for as a summer 

shower : 
One took him for a victim of Earl 

Doorm, 
Nor dared to waste a perilous pity on 

him : 
Another hurrying past, a man-at-arms. 
Rode on a mission to the bandit Earl ; 
Half whistling and half singing a 

coarse song, 
He drove the dust against her veilless 

eyes : 
Another, flying from the wrath of 

Doorm 
Before an ever-fancied arrow, made 
The long way smoke beneath him in 

his fear ; 
At which her palfrey whinnying lifted 

heel. 
And scour'd'into the coppices and 



charger stood. 





But at the point of noon the huge 

Earl Doorm, 
Broad-faced with under-fringe of russet 

beard. 

Bound on a foray, rolling ej'es of prey, 
Came riding with a hundred lances 

up; 
But ere he came, like one that hails 

a ship. 
Cried out with a big voice, ' What, is 

he dead ? ' 
' No, no, not dead ! ' she answer'd in 

all haste. 
' Would some of your kind people 

take him up. 
And bear him hence out of this cruel 



Then said Earl Doorm : • Well, if 

he be not dead, 
Why wail ye for him thus ? ye seem a 

child. 
And be he dead, I count vou for a 

fool ; 
Your wailing will not quicken him : 

dead or not, 
Ye mar a comely face with idiot tears. 
Yet, since the face is comely — some of 

you> 
Here, take him u]), and bear him to 

our hall : 
An if he live, we will have him of our 

band ; 
And if he die, why earth has earth 

enough 
To hide him. See ye take the charger 

too, 
A noble one.' 

He spake, and past away. 
But left two brawny spearmen, who 

advanced, 
Each growling like a dog, when his 

good bone 
Seems to be pluck'd at by the village 

boys 
Who love to vex him eating, and he 

fears 
To lose his bone, and lays his foot 

upon it, 
Gnawing and growling : so the ruffians 

growl'd. 














x 


Ti] 1 1— s 


? 1 1 m 


1 




i 


226 Gcra'vii and Enid. 


Fearing to lose, and all for a dead 


But in the falling afternoon return'd 




■ 


man. 


The huge Earl Doorm with plunder 


li 








Their chance of booty from the morn- 


to the hall. 


IF 






eAi» ing's raid, 


His lusty spearmen follow'd him with <AJ 






Yet raised and laid him on a litter- 


noise : 






bier, 


Each hurling down a heap of things 






Such as they brought upon their 


that rang 






forays out 


Against the pavement, cast his lance 






For those that might be wounded; 


aside. 






laid him on it 


And doff'd his helm : and then there 






All in the hollow of his shield, and 


flutter'd in, 






took 


Half-bold, half-frighted, with dilated 






And bore him to the naked hall of 


eyes. 






Doorm, 


A tribe of women, dress'd in many 






(His gentle charger following him 


hues, 






unled) 


And mingled with the spearmen: 






And cast him and the bier in which he 


and Earl Doom. 






lay 


Struck with a knife's haft hard against 






Down on an oaken settle in the hall. 


the board. 






And then departed, hot in haste to 


And call'd for flesh and wine to feed 






join 


his spears. 






Their luckier mates, but growling as 


And men brought in whole hogs and 






before, 


quarter beeves, 






And cursing their lost time, and the 


And all the hall was dim with steam 






dead man. 


of flesh : 






And their own Earl, and their own 


And none spake word, but all sat 






souls, and her. 


down at once. 






They might as well have blest her : 


And ate with tumult in the naked hall, 






she was deaf 


Feeding like horses when vou hear 






To blessing or to cursing save from one. 


them feed; 
Till Enid shrank far back into herself, 






So for long hours sat Enid bv her 
lord, 


To shun the wild ways of the lawless 
tribe. 






There in the naked hall, propping his 


Cut when Earl Doorm had eaten all 






head. 


he would, 






And chafint; his pale hands, and call- 


He roll'd his eves about the hall, and 






ing to him. 


found ■ 






Till at the last he waken'd from his 


A damsel drooping in a corner of it. 






swoon, 


Then he remember'd her, and how 






And found his own dear bride prop- 


she wept ; 






ping his head. 


And out of her there came a power 






And chafing his faint hands, and call- 


upon him ; 






ing to him ; 


And rising on the sudden he said, 






And felt the warm tears falling on his 


'Eat! 






face; 


I never yet beheld a thing so pale. 






And said to his own heart, 'She 


God's curse, it makes me mad to see 






weeps for me : ' 


vou weep. 






«r And yet lay still, and feign'd himself 


Eat 1 Look yourself. Good luck had T 






. 


as dead. 


your good man. 










That he might prove her to the utter- 


For were I dead who is it would weep 










most, 


for me > 










And say to his own heart, ' She weeps 


Sweet lady, never since I first drew 








^ 


for me.' 


breath 






HI 13 i \ 1 LlJV 












Geraint and Enid. 



Have I beheld a lily like yourself. 
And so there lived some color in 

your cheek, 
There is not one among my gentle- 
Were fit to wear your slipper for a 

glove. 
But listen to me, and by me be ruled. 
And I will do the thing I have not 

done, 
For ye shall share my earldom with 

me, girl, 
And we will live like two birds in one 

nest. 
And I will fetch you forage from all 

fields, 
For I compel all creaiures to my will.' 

He spoke : the brawny spearman 
let his cheek 
Bulge with the uuswallow'd piece, and 

While some, whose souls the old ser- 
pent long had drawn 

Down, as the worm draws in the 
wither'd leaf 

And makes it earth, hiss'd each at 
other's ear 

What shall not be recorded — women 
they. 

Women, or what had been those 
gracious things. 

But now desired the humbling of their 

to it: 



Yea, would have help'd hi 

and all at once 
They hated her, who took no thought 

of them. 
But answer'd in low voice, her meek 

head yet 
Drooping, ' I pray you of your cour- 



He being as he is, 



be.' 



She spake so low he hardly heard 
her speak. 

But like a mighty patron, satisfied 

With what himself had done so gra- 
ciously. 

Assumed that she had thank'd him, 
adding, ' Yea, 

Eat and be glad, for I account you 





She answer'd meekly, ' How should 
I be glad 

Henceforth in all the world at any- 
thing, 

Until my lord arise and look upon 



Here the huge Earl cried out upon 
her talk. 
As all but empty heart and weariness 
And sickly nothing ; suddenly seized 

on her. 
And bare her by main violence to the 

board. 
And thrust the dish before her, crying, 
' Eat.' 

' No, no,' said Enid, vext, ' I will 

not eat 
Till yonder man upon the bier arise, 
And eat with me.' ' Drink, then,' he 

answer'd. ' Here ! ' 
(And filL'd a horn with wine and held 

it to her,) 
'Lol I, myself, when flush'd with 

fight, or hot, 
God's curse, with anger — often I my- 
self. 
Before I well have drunken, scarce 

can eat : 
Drink therefore and the wine will 

change your will.' 

' Not so,' she cried, ' by Heaven, I 
will not drink 
Till my dear lord arise and bid me do 



And dri 


nk with r 


ne; a 


id if he 


ise no 


I will nc 


t look at 


wine 


until I d 


e.' 


At th 

h 

Now gn 


s he turn 
s hall, 
aw'd his 


•dall 
under 


red and 
now his 


paced 
upper 



And coming up close to her, said at 



'Girl, for I see ye scorn my courtesies, 
Take warning : yonder man is surely 





Gerainf and Enid. 



Who put your beauty to this flout and 

scorn 
By dressing it in rags ? Amazed am 

I, 
Beholding how ye butt against my 

wish, 
That I forbear you thus : cross me no 

more. 
At least put off to please me this poor 

This silken rag, this beggar-woman's 

I love that beauty should go beauti- 
fully : 
For see ye not my gentlewomen here, 
How gay, how suited to the house of 

Who loves that beauty should go 
beautifully ? 

Rise therefore ; robe yourself in this : 
obey.' 
He spoke, and one among his gen- 
tle-women 

Display'd a splendid silk of foreign 

Where like a shoaling sea the lovely 

blue 
Play'd into green, and thicker down 

the front 
With j'ewels than the sward with 

drops of dew, 
When all night long a cloud clings to 

the hill, 
And with the dawn ascending lets the 

day 
Strike where it clung : so thickly shone 

the gems. 

But Enid ans 

moved 
Than hardest ty 

l)ower, 
With life-long injuries burning una- 

.\nd now their hour has come; and 
Knid said: 



this poor gown my dear loi.l 

found me first. 
And loved me serving in my father's 

hall: 
In this poor gown I rode with him to 

court. 



harder to be 
n their day of 





And there the Queen 

the sun : 
In this poor gown he bad me clothe 

myself. 
When now we rode upon this fatal 

quest 
Of honor, where no honor can be 

gain'd : 
And this poor gown I will not cast 

aside 
Until himself arise a living man, 
And bid me cast it. I have griefs 

enough : 
Pray you be gentle, pray you let me 

be: 
I never loved, can never love but 

him : 
Vea, God, I pray you of your gentle- 
ness, 
He being as he is, to let me be.' 

Then strode the brute Earl up and 

down his hall, 
And took his russet beard between 

his teeth; 
Last, coming up quite close, and in 

his mood 
Crying, ' I count it of no more avail, 
Dame, to be gentle than ungentle 



you ; 



Take my salute,' unknightly with 

flat hand, 
However lightly, smote her on the 

cheek. 



Then En 



her utter helpless- 



And since she thought, ' He had not 

dared to do it, 
E.tcept he surely knew my lord was 

dead,' 
Sent forth a sudden sharp and bitter 

cry, 
As of a wild thing taken in a trap, 
Which sees the trapper coming thro' 

the wood. 

This heard Geraint, and grasping at 

his sword, 
(It lay beside him in the hollow 

shield). 
Made but a single bound, and with a 

sweep of it 





Geraint and Enid. 



Shore thro' the swarthy neck, and like 



The russet-bearded head roll'd on the 

floor. 
So died Earl Doorm by him he 

counted dead. 
And all the men and women in the 

hall 
Rose when they saw the dead man 

rise, and fled 
Yelling as from a spectre, and the 

two 
Were left alone together, and he 

said : 

' Enid, I have used you worse than 

that dead man ; 
Done you more wrong : we both have 

undergone 
That trouble which has left me thrice 

your own : 
Henceforward I will rather die than 

doubt. 
And here I lay this penance on my- 

Not, tho' mine own ears heard you 

yestermorn — 
You thought me sleeping, but I heard 

you say, 
I heard you say, that you were no 



I swear 



not ask your meaning 



I do believe yourself against yourself. 
And will henceforward rather die 
than doubt.' 

And Enid could not say one tender 
word. 
She felt so blunt and stupid at the 

She only pray'd him, ' Fly, they will 

And slay you ; fly, your charger is 

without. 
My palfrey lost.' ' Then, Enid, shall 

you ride 
Behind me.' 'Yea,' said Enid, 'let 

And moving out they found the 

stately horse, 
Who now no more a vassal to the 

thief. 





But free to stretch his limbs in lawful 

fight, 
Neigh'd with all gladness as they 

came, and stoop'd 
With a low whinny toward the pair : 

and she 
Kiss'd the white star upon his noble 

front. 
Glad also ; then Geraint upon the 

Mounted, and reach'd a hand, and on 

his foot 
She set her own and climb'd ; he 

turn'd his face 
And kiss'd her climbing, and she 

cast her arms 
About him, and at once they rode 

away. 

And never yet,since high in Paradise 

O'er the four rivers the first roses 
blew, 

Came purer pleasure unto mortal 
kind 

Than lived thro' her, who in that per- 
ilous hour 

Put hand to hand beneath her hus- 
band's heart. 

And felt him hers again: she did not 
weep. 

But o'er her meek eyes came a happy 
mist 

Like that which kept the heart of 
Eden green 

Before the useful trouble of the rain : 

Yet not so misty were her meek blue 
eyes 

As not to see before them on the 
path, 

Right in the gateway of the bandit 
bold, 

A knight of Arthur's court, who laid 
his lance 

In rest, and made as if to fall upon 

Then, fearing for his hurt and loss of 

blood, 
She, with her mind all full of what 

had chanced, 
Shriek'd to the stranger ' Slay not a 

dead man ! ' 
' The voice of Enid,' said the knight ; 

but she, 





Geraint and Enid. 



Edy 



Beholding 

Niidd, 
Was moved so much the more, and 

shriek'd again, 
' O cousin, slay not him who gave you 

life.' 
And Edyrn moving frankly forward 

spake : 
' My lord Geraint, I greet you with all 

love ; 
I took you for a bandit knight of 

Doorm ; 
And fear not, Enid, I should fall 

upon him. 
Who love you, Prince, with some- 
thing of the love 
Wherewith we love the Heaven that 

chastens us. 
For once when I was up so high in 

pride 
That I was halfway down the slope to 

Hell, 



By 



Nc 



'erthrc 
highe 



ing 



threw 



knight of Arthur's Table 
Earl, when I 



And since I knew thi: 

myself 
Was half a bandit in my lawless 

hour, 
I come the mouthpiece of our King 

to Doorm 
(The King is close behind me) bidding 

Disband himself, and scatter all his 

powers, 
Submit, and hear the judgment of the 

King.' 

' He hears the judgment of the 

King of kings,' 
Cried the wan Prince; 'and lo, the 

powers of Doorm 
Are scatter'd,' and he pointed to the 

field. 
Where, huddled here and there on 

mound and knoll, 
Were men and women staring and 

aghast, 
While some yet fled ; and then he 

plainlier told 
How the huge Earl lay slain within 




But when the knight besought him, 

' Follow me, 
Prince, to the camp, and in the King's 

own ear 
Speak what has chanced ; ye surely 

have endured 
Strange chances here alone ; ' that 

other flush'd, 
And hung his head, and halted in 

reply. 
Fearing the mild face of the blameless 

King, 
And after madness acted question 

ask'd : 
Till Edyrn crying, ' If ye will not go 
To Arthur, then will Arthur come to 

' Enough,' he said, ' I follow,' and they 

went. 
But Enid in their going had two fears, 
One from the bandit scatter'd in the 

field. 
And one from Edyrn. Every now 

and then, 
When Edyrn rein'd his charger at her 

side, 
She shrank a little. In a hollow land, 
From which old fires have broken, 

men may fear 
Fresh fire and ruin. He, perceiving, 

said : 

' Fair and dear cousin, you that 
most had cause 

To fear me, fear no longer, I am 
changed. 

Yourself were first tke blameless 
cause to make 

My nature's prideful sparkle in the 
blood 

Break into furious flame; being re- 
pulsed 

By Yniol and yourself, I schemed and 
wrought 

Until I overturn'd him ; then set up 

(With one main purpose ever at my 
heart) 

My haughty jousts, and took a para- 
mour ; 

Did her mock-honor as the fairest fair. 

And, toppling over all antagonism. 

So wa.x'd in pride, that I believed 
myself 





Geraint anti Enid. 



Unconquerable, for I was wellnigh 

mad : 
And, but for my main purpose in these 

I should have slain your father, seized 

yourself. 
I lived in hope that sometime you 

would come 
To these my lists with him whom 

best you loved ; 
And there, poor cousin, with your 

meek blue eyes. 
The truest eyes that ever answer'd 

Heaven, 
Behold me overturn and trample on 

Then, had you cried, or knelt, or 

pray'd to me, 
I should not less have kill'd him. 

And you came, — 
But once you came, — and with your 

own true eyes 
Beheld the man you loved (I speak as 

one 
Speaks of a service done him) over- 

My proud self, and my purpose three 

years old. 
And set his foot upon me, and give 

me life. 
There was I broken down ; there was 

Tho' thence I rode all-shamed, hating 

the life 
He gave me, meaning to "be rid of it. 
And all the penance the Queen laid 



ithii 



her 



1 sullen as a beast new- 



court 
Where first 

caged, 
And waiting to be treated like a wolf. 
Because I knew my deeds were 

known, I found, 
Instead of scornful pity or pure scorn, 
.Such fine reserve and noble reticence. 
Manners so kind, yet stately, such a 

grace 
Of tenderest courtesy, that I began 
To glance behind me at my former 

"ife. 
And find that it had been the wolf's 

indeed : 





And oft I talk'dwith Dubric, the high 
saint, 

Who, with mild heat of holy oratory, 

Subdued me somewhat to that gentle- 
ness. 

Which, when it weds with manhood, 
makes a man. 

And you were often there about the 
Queen, 

But saw me not, or mark'd not if you 



dare to speak with 

aloof till I was 

I changed 



Nor did I care 

you. 
But kept myself 

changed ; 
And fear not, cous 

indeed.' 



He spoke, and Enid easily believed. 
Like simple noble natures, credulous 
Of what they long for, good in friend 

or foe. 
There most in those who most have 

done them ill. 
And when they reach'd the camp the 

King himself 
Advanced to greet them, and behold- 
ing her 
Tho' pale, yet happy, ask'd her not a 

word, 
But went apart with Edvrn, whom he 

held 
In converse for a little, and return'd, 
And, gravely smiling, lifted her from 

horse. 
And kiss'd her with all pureness, 

brotherlike. 
And show'd an empty tent allotted her. 
And glancing for a minute, till he saw 

her 
Pass into it, turn'd to the Prince, and 

said : 

' Prince, when of late ye pray'd me 

for my leave 
To move to your own land, and there 

defend 
Your marches, I was prick'd with 

some reproof, 
As one that let foul wrong stagnate 

and be, 
Bv having look'd too much thro' alien 

eyes. 




Geraint and Enid. 



And wrought too long with delegated 

hands, 
Not used mine own : but now behold 

me come 
To cleanse this common sewer of all 

have ye 

look'd 
At Edyrn ? have ye seen how nobly 

changed ? 
This work ol his is great and vvonder- 

• ful. 
His very face with change of heart is 

changed. 
The world will not believe a man re- 
pents : 
And this wise world of ours is mainly 

right. 
Full seldom doth a man repent, or 

use 
Both grace and will to pick the vicious 

quitch 
Of blood and custom wholly out of 

him. 
And make all clean, and plant himself 

afresh. 
Edyrn has done it, weeding all his 

heart 
As I will weed this land before I go. 
I, therefore, made him of our Table 

Round, 
Not rashly, but have proved him 

everyway 
One uf our noblest, our most valorous, 
.Sanest and most obedient : and indeed 
This work of Edyrn wrought upon 

himself 
.^fter a life of violence, seems to me 
A thousand-fold more great and won- 
derful 
Than if some knight of mine, risking 

his life, 
My subject with my subjects under 

him, 
Should make an onslaught single on a 

realm 
Of robbers, tho' he slew them one by 

one, 
And were himself nigh wounded to 

the death.' 




His work was neither great nor won- 
derful. 
And past to Enid's tent; and thither 

The King's own leech to look into his 

hurt; 
And Enid tended on him there ; and 

there 
Her constant motion round him, and 

the breath 
Of her sweet tendance hovering over 

him, 
Fill'd all the genial courses of his 

blood 
With deeper and with ever deeper love 
As the south-west that blowing Bala 

lake 
Fills all the sacred Dee. So past the 

days. 

But while Geraint lay healing of his 

hurt. 
The blameless King went forth and 

cast his eyes 
On each of all whom Uther left in 

charge 
Long since, to guard the justice of the 

King : 
He look'd and found them wanting; 

and as now 
Men weed the white horse on the 

Berkshire hills 
To keep him bright and clean as 

heretofore, 
He rooted out the slothful officer 
Or guilty, which for bribe had wink'd 

at wrong. 
And in their chairs set up a stronger 

race 
With hearts and hands, and sent a 

thousand men 
To till the wastes, and moving every- 



vhen 



Clear'd the dark places and let 



the 



Then, when Geraint was whole 
again, they past 
With Arthur to Caerleon upon Usk. 
There the great Queen once more em- 
braced her friend, 





Balin and Balan. 



nt could never take 

That comfort from their converse , 

which he took 
Before the Queen's fair name was 

breathed upon, 
He rested well content that all was 

well. 
Thence after tarrying for a space they 

rode, 
And fifty knights rode with them to 

the shores 
Of Severn, and they past to their own 

land. 
And there he kept the justice of the 

King 
So vigorously yet mildly, that all 

hearts 
Applauded, and the spiteful whisper 

died : 
And being ever foremost in the chase. 
And victor at the tilt and tournament. 
They call'd him the great Prince and 

But Enid, whom her ladies loved to 

call 
Enid the Fair, a grateful people 

Enid the Good ; and in their halls 

The cry of children, Enids and Ge- 

Of times to be ; nor did he doubt her 

But rested in her fealty, till he crown'd 
A happy life with a fair death, and 

fell 
Against the heathen of the Northern 

Sea 
In battle, fighting for the blameless 

King. 

BALIN AND BALAN. 
Pellam the King, who held and lost 

with • 
In that first war, and had his realm 

restored 
But render'd tributary, fail'd of late 
send his tribute ; wherefore 

Arthur call'd 





nd him and bring 



His treasurer, one of many years, and 

' Go thou with hi 

it to us. 
Lest we should 

throne. 
Man's word is God in man.' 

His Baron said 
' We go but barken : there be two 

strange knights 
Who sit near Camelot at a fountain 

side, 
A mile beneath the forest, challenging 
And overthrowing every knight who 

comes. 
Wilt thou I undertake them as we pass. 
And send them to thee.' 

Arthur laugh'd upon him. 
' Old friend, too old to be so young, 

depart. 
Delay not thou for ought, but let them 



So these departed. Early, one fair 

dawn. 
The light-wing'd spirit of his youth 

return'd 
On Arthur's heart ; he arm'd himself 

and went, 
So coming to the fountain-side beheld 
Balin and Balan sitting statuelike, 
Brethren, to right and left the spring, 

that down. 
From underneath a plume of lady-fern. 
Sang, and the sand danced at the bot- 



And 



m of it. 
the right of Ba 



Balin's 



Was fast beside an alder, on the left 
Of Balan Balan's near a poplartree. 
' Fair Sirs,' said Arthur, ' wherefore 

sit ye here.'' 
Balin and Balan answer'd ' For the 

sake 
Of glory ; we be mightier men than all 
In Arthur's court ; that also have we 

proved ; 
For 'whatsoever knight against us 

came 





Balin and £a/an. 



Or I or he have easily overthrown.' 
'I too,' said Arthur, ' am of Arthur's 

hall, 
But rather proven in his Paynini wars 
Than famous jousts ; but see, or 

proven or not. 
Whether me likewise ye can over- 
throw.' 
And Arthur lightly smote the brethren 

man 



Then Balin rose, and Balan, and 

beside 
The carolling water set themselves 

again, 
And spake no word until the shadow 

turn'd; 
When from the fringe of coppice 

round them burst 
A spangled pursuivant, and crying 

' Sirs, 
Rise, follow ! ye be sent for by the 

King,' 
They follow'd ; whom when. Arthur 

seeing ask'd 
' Tell me your names ; why sat ye by 

the well ? ' 
Balin the stillness of a minute broke 
Saying ' An unmelodious name to thee, 
Balin, "the Savage "—that addition 



My brother and 


my 


better, 


this man 


here. 








Balan. I smote 


upo 


1 the naked skull 


A thrall of thi 


le 1 


1 open 


hall, my 


hand 








Was gauntleted 


hal 


slew 


im ; for I 


heard 








He had spoken 


evil 


of me 


; thy just 


wrath 








Sent me a three- 


years 


'exile 


rom Ihme 



I have not lived my life delightsomely ; 

For I that did that violence to thy 
thrall, 

Had often wrought some fury on my- 
self. 

Saving for Balan: those three king- 
less years 

Have past — were wormwood-bitter to 
me. Kintr, 





Methought that if 

well, 
And hurl'd to ground what knight 

soever spurr'd 
Against us, thou would'st take me 

gladlier back, 
And make, as ten-times worthier to be 

thine 
Than twenty Balins, Balan knight. I 

have said. 
Not so — not all. A man of thine to-day 
Abash'd us both, and brake my boast. 

Thy will .' ' 
Said Arthur 'Thou hast ever spoken 

truth ; 
Thy too fierce manhood would not let 

thee lie. 
Rise, niv true knight. As children 

learn, be thou 
Wiser for falling! walk with me, and 

To music with thine Order and the 

King. 
Thy chair, a grief to all the brethren, 



again 1 

Thereafter, when Sir Balin enter'd 
hall. 

The Lost one Found was greeted as 
in Heaven 

With joy that blazed itself in wood- 
land wealth 

Of leaf, and gayest garlandage of 

Along the walls and down the board ; 

they sat, 
And cup clash'd cup; they drank and 

Sweet-voiced, a song of welcome, 
whereupon 

Their common shout in chorus, mount- 
ing, made 

Those banners of twelve battles over- 
head 

Stir, as they stirr'd of old, when 
Arthur's host 

Proclaim'd him Victor, and the day 

Then Balan added to the: 





Balin and Balan. 



A wealthier li£e than heretofore with 

these 
And Balin, till their embassage 

return'd. 

' Sir King ' they brought report ' we 

hardly found, 
So bush'd about it is with gloom, the 

hall 
Of him to whom ye sent us, Pellam, 

once 
A C hristless foe of thine as ever dash'd 
Horse against horse ; but seeing that 

thy realm 
Hath prosper'd in the name of Christ, 

the King 
Took, as in rival heat, to holy things ; 
And finds himself descended from the 

Saint 
Arimathaean Joseph ; him who first 
Brought the great faith to Britain 

over seas ; 
He boasts his life as purer than thine 

own ; 
Eats scarce enow to keep his pulse 

abeat ; 
Hath push'd aside his faithful wife, 

nor lets 
Or dame or damsel enter at his gates 
Lest he should be polluted. This 

gray King 
Show'd us a shrine wherein were 



Rich 



rks 



th priceless bones of 
shivers of 



Thorns of the crown 

the cross. 
And therewithal (for thus he told us) 

brought 
By holy Joseph hither, that same 

spear 
Wherewith the Roman pierced the 

side of Christ. 
He much amazed us ; after, when we 

sought 
The tribute, answer'd " I have quite 

foregone 
All matters of this world : Garlon, 



Of him demand it," which this Gar- 
lon gave 

With much ado, railing at thine and 
thee. 





those deep 



But when we left, ii 

woods we found 
A knight of thine spear-stricken from 

behind, 
Dead, whom we buried ; more than 

one of us 
Cried out on Garlon, but a woodman 

there 
Reported of some demon in the 

woods 
Was once a man, who driven by evil 

tongues 
From all his fellows, lived alone, and 

came 
To learn black magic, and to hate his 

kind 
With such a hate, that when he died, 

his soul 
Became a Fiend, which, as the man in 

life 
Was wounded by blind tongues he 

saw not whence, 
Strikes from behind. This woodman 

show'd the cave 
From which he sallies, and wherein 

he dwelt. 
We saw the hoof-print of a horse, no 

more.' 

Then Arthur, ' Let who goes before 

me, see 
He do not fall behind me : foully 

slain 
And villainously ! who will hunt for 

This demon of the woods?' Said 

Balan, 'I'! 
So claim'd the quest and rode away, 

but first, 
Embracing Balin, ' Good my brother, 

hear! 
Let not thy moods prevail, when I am 

gone 
Who used to lay them ! hold them 

outer fiends. 
Who leap at thee to tear thee ; shake 



Urea 
That 


ns ruling w 
but to dre 
any of the 


hen w 


Id 


leeps 
vrong 


yea, 
thee. 


Witn 


wron£!S th\ 

ess their ' 

Bound are 


self, 
flowery 
they 


welcome. 

« 




Balin and Balan. 



To speak no evil. Truly safe for 

fears, 
My fears for thee, so rich a fellowship 
Would make me wholly blest: thou 

one of them, 
Be one indeed : consider them, and 

all 
Their bearing in their common bond 

No more of hatred than in Heaven 
itself. 

No more of jealousy than in Para- 
dise.' 

So Balan warn'd, and went ; Balin 

remain'd : 
Who — for but three brief moons had 

glanced away 
From being knighted till he smote the 

thrall, 
And faded from the presence into 



himself 

To learn what Arthur meant by 
courtesy, 

Manhood, and knighthood ; wherefore 
hover'd round 

Lancelot, but when he mark'd his 
high sweet smile 

In passing, and a transitory word 

Make knight or churl or child or dam- 
sel seem 

From being smiled at happier in them- 
selves — 

Sigh'd, as a boy lame-born beneath a 
height. 

That glooms his valley, sighs to see 
the peak 

Sun-flush'd, or touch at night the 
northern star ; 

For one from out his village lately 
climb'd 

And brought report of azure lands 
and fair. 

Far seen to left and right; and he 
himself 

Hath hardly scaled with help a hun- 
dred feet 

Up from the base; so Balin marvel- 
■■ , oft 

How far beyond him Lancelot seem d 
to move, 





Groan'd, and at times would mutter, 

' These be gifts. 
Born with the blood, not learnable, 

divine. 
Beyond vty reach. Well had I 

foughten — well — 
In those fierce wars, struck hard — and 

had I crown'd 
With my slain self the heaps of whom 

I slew — 
So — better ! — But this worship of the 

Queen, 
That honor too wherein she holds 

him — this. 
This was the sunshine that hath given 

the man 
A growth, a name that branches o'er 

the rest, 
And strength against all odds, and 

what the King 
So prizes — overprizes — gentleness. 
Her likewise would I worship an I 

might. 
I never can be close with her, as he 
That brought her hither. Shall I 

pray the King 
To let me bear some token of his 

Queen 
Whereon to gaze, remembering her— 

forget 
My heats and violences ? live afresh ? 
What, if the Queen disdain'd to grant 

it I nay 
Being so stately-gentle, would she 

make 
My darkness blackness ? and with 

how sweet grace 
She greeted my return ! Bold will 

I be— 
Some goodly cognizance of Guinevere, 
In lieu of this rough beast upon my 

shield, 
Langued gules, and tooth'd with grin- 
ning savagery.' 

And Arthur, when Sir Balin sought 

him, said 
'What wilt thou bear?' Balin was 

bold, and ask'd 
To bear her own crown-royal upon 

shield. 
Whereat she smiled and turn'd ner to 

the King, 





Balin and Balan. 



Who answer'd ' Thou shalt put the 

crown to use. 
The crown is but the shadow of the 

King, 
And this a shadow's shadow, let him 

have it, 
So thiswil! help him of his violences ! ' 
' No shadow ' said Sir Balin ' O my 

Queen, ' 

But light to me ! no shadow, O my 

King 
But golden earnest of a gentler life ! ' 

So Balin bare the crown, and all 

the knights 
Approved him, and the Queen, and all 

the world 
Made music, and he felt his being 

■ith his Order, and the 



King. 



lid- 



The nightingale, full-to 
die May, 

Hath ever and anon a note so thin 

It seems another voice in other 
groves ; 

Thus, after some quick burst of sud- 
den wrath, 

The music in him seem'd to change, 
and grow 

Faint and far-off. 

And once he saw the thrall 

His passion half had gauntleted to 
death, 

That causer of his banishment and 



Smile at him, as he de 


m'd, presump- 


tuously : 




His arm half rose to s 


rike again, but 



The memory of that cognizance on 

shield 
Weighted it down, but in himself he 



' Too high this mount of Camelot 
for me : 
These high-set courtesies are not for 





r and stormier from i 

break 
some madness ev'n before the 

Queen .>' 



m a mountam 
V, when 



Thus, as a hearth 1 

home, 
And glancing on the 

the gloom 
Of twilight deepens round it, seems a 

flame 
That rages in the woodland far below. 
So when his moods were darken'd, 

court and King 
And all the kindly warmth of Arthur's 

hall 
Shadow'd an angry distance : yet he 

To learn the graces of their Table, 

fought 
Hard with himself, and seem'd at 

length in peace. 

Then chanced, one morning, that 

Sir Balin sat 
Close-bower'd in that garden nigh the 

hall. 
A walk of roses ran from door to 

door; 
A walk of lilies crost it to the bower: 
And down that range of roses the 

great Queen 
Came with slow steps, the morning on 

her face ; 
And all in shadow from the counter 

door 
Sir Lancelot as to meet her, then at 

As if he saw not, glanced aside, and 

paced 
The long white walk of lilies toward 

the bower. 
Follow'd the Queen ; Sir Balin heard 

her ' Prince, 
Art thou so little loyal to thy Queen, 
As pass without good morrow to thy 

Queen ? ' 
To whom Sir Lancelot with his eyes 

on earth, 
' Fain would I still be loyal to the 

Queen.' 
'Yea so ' she i 

by- 





Balin and Balan. 



So loyal scarce is loyal to thyself, 
Whom all men rate the king of cour- 
tesy. 
Let be : ye stand, fair lord, as in a 
dream.' 

Then Lancelot with his hand among 

the flowers 
' Yea — for a dream. Last night me- 

thought I saw 
That maiden Saint who stands with 

lily in hand 
In yonder shrine. All round her 

prest the dark, 
And all the light upon her silver face 
Flow'd from the spiritual lily that she 

held. 
Lo 1 these her emblems drew mine 

eyes — away : 
For see, how perfect-pure I As light 

a flush 
As hardly tints the blossom of the 



' Sweeter to me ' she said ' this 

garden rose 
Deep-hued and many-folded ! sweeter 

still 
The wild-wood hyacinth and the bloom 

of May. 
Prince, we have ridd'n before among 

the flowers 
In those fair days — not all as cool as 

these, 
Tho' season-earlier. Art thou sad .'' 

or sick ? 
Our noble King will send thee his 

own leech — 
Sick ? or for any matter anger'd at me .' ' 

Then Lancelot lifted his large eyes ; 

they dwelt 
Deep-tranced on hers, and could not 

fall : her hue 
Changed at his gaze : so turning side 

by side 
They past, and Balin started from his 

bower. 

; .> but I see not 





hear 



hat I 



Damsel and lov 

hear. 
My father hath begotten me in his 

wrath. 
I suffer from the things before me, 

Learn nothing ; am not worthy to be 

A Aurl, a clown ! ' and in him gloom 

on gloom 
Deepen'd : he sharply caught his lance 

and shield. 
Nor stay'd to crave permission of the 

king, 
But, m.ad for strange adventure, dash'd 

away. 



; track as Balan, 
together. 



He took the selfsan 

saw 
The fountain where they s 

sigh'd 
' Was I not better there with him?' 

and rode 
The skyless woods, but under open 

blue 
Came on the hoarhead woodman at a 

bough 
Wearily hewing. ' Churl, thine axe ! ' 

he cried. 
Descended, and disjointed it at a blow: 
To whom the woodman utter'd won- 

deringly 
' Lord, thou couldst lay the Devil of 

these woods 
If arm of flesh could lay him.' Balin 

cried 
' Him, or the viler devil who plays his 

part. 
To lay that devil would lay the Devil 

' Nay ' said the churl, ' our devil is a 

truth, 
I saw the flash of him but yestereven. 
And some do say that our Sir Garlon 

too 
Hath learn'd black magic, and to ride 

unseen. 
Look to the cave.' But Balin answer'd 



be fancies of the 



'Old fabler, the 
churl. 

Look to thy woodcraft,' and so leav- 
ing him. 




Balin and Balati. 



Now with slack rein and careless of 

himsel 
Now with dug spur and raving at him- 
self. 
Now with droopt brow down the long 

glades he rode ; 
So mark'd not on his right a cavern- 
chasm 
Yawn over darkness, whfere, nor far 

within, 
The whole day died, but, dying, 

gleam'd on rocks 
Roof-pendent, sharp ; and others from 

the floor. 
Tusklike, arising, made that mouth of 

night 
Whereout the Demon issued up from 

Hell. 
He mark'd not this, but blind and deaf 

to all 
Save that chain'd rage, which ever 

yelpt within. 
Past eastward from the falling sun. 

At once 
He felt the hollow-beaten mosses 

thud 
And tremble, and then the shadow of 

a spear. 
Shot from behind him, ran along the 

ground. 
Sideways he started from the path, 

and saw. 
With pointed lance as if to pierce, a 

shape, 
A light of armor by him flash, and 

pass 
And vanish in the woods; and fol- 

low'd this. 
But all so blind in rage that unawares 
He burst his lance against a forest 

bough, 
Dishorsed himself, and rose again, and 

fled 
Far, till the castle of a King, the hall 
Of Pellam, lichen-bearded, grayly 

draped 
With streaming grass, appear'd, low- 
built but strong ; 
The ruinous donjon as a knoll of 

moss, 
The battlement overtopt with ivytods, 
A home of bats, in every tower an 

owl. 





Then spake the men of Pellam cry- 
ing ' Lord, 
Why wear ye this crown-royal upon 

shield.'' 
Said Balin 'For the fairest and the 

best 
Of ladies living gave me this to bear.' 
So stall'd his horse, and strode across 

the court, 
But found the greetings both of knight 

and King 
Faint in the low dark hall of banquet : 

leaves 
Laid their green faces flat against the 

panes, 
Sprays grated, and the . canker'd 

boughs without 
Whined in the wood ; for all was 

hush'd within. 
Till when at feast Sir Garlon likewise 

ask'd 
' Why wear ye that crown-royal .' ' 

Balin said 
'The Queen we worship, Lancelot, I, 

and all, 
As fairest, best and purest, granted me 
To bear it ! ' Such a sound (for 

Arthur's knights 
Were hated strangers in the hall) as 

makes 
The white swan-mother, sitting, when 

she hears 
A strange knee rustle thro' her secret 

reeds, 
Made Garlon, hissing ; then he sourly 

smiled. 
'Fairest I grant her: I have seen; 

but best. 
Best, purest ? thou from Arthur's hall, 

and yet 
So simple ! hast thou eyes, or if, are 

these 
So far besotted that they fail to see 
This fair wife-worship cloaks a secret 

shame ? 
Truly, ye men of Arthur be but babes.' 

A goblet on the board by 



With holy Joseph's legend, on his 

right 
Stood, all of massiest bronze : one side 





Balin and Balan. 



And ship and sail and angels blowing 

on it : 
And one was rough with wattling, 

and the walls 
Of that low church he built at Glaston- 
bury. 
This Balin graspt, but while in act to 

hurl, 
Thro' memory of that token on the 

shield 
Relax'd his hold : ' I will be gentle' he 

thought 
' And passing gentle' caught his hand 

away. 
Then fiercely to Sir Garlon 'eyes have I 
That saw to-day the shadow of a spear, 
Shot from behind me, run along the 

ground ; 
Eyes too that long have watch'd how 

Lancelot draws 
From homage to the best and purest, 

might, 
Name, manhood, and a grace, but 

scantly thine, 
Who, sitting in thine own hall, canst 

endure 
To mouth so huge a foulness— to thy 

guest. 
Me, me of Arthur's Table. Felon 

talk! 
Let be ! no more ! ' 

But not the less by night 

The scorn of Garlon, poisoning all his 
rest. 

Stung him in dreams. At length, and 
dim thro' leaves 

Blinkt the white morn, sprays grated, 
and old boughs 

Whined in the wood. He rose, de- 
scended, met 

The scorner in the castle court, and 
fain. 

For hate and loathing, would have 
past him by ; 

But when Sir Garlon utter'd mocking- 

' What, wear ye still that same crown- 
scandalous ? ' 

His countenance blacken'd, and his 
forehead veins 

Bloated, and branch'd; and tearing 
out of sheath 





The brand, Sir Balin with a fiery ' Ha 1 
So thou be shadow, here I make thee 

ghost,' 
Hard upon helm smote him, and the 

blade flew 
Splintering in six, and clinkt upon the 

Then Garlon, reeling slowly back- 
ward, fell, 

And Balin by the banneret of his helm 

Dragg'd him, and struck, but from the 
castle a cry 

Sounded across the court, and — men- 
at-arms, 

A score with pointed lances, making 

He dash'd the pummel at the fore- 
most face, 

Beneath a low door dipt, and made his 
feet 

Wings thro' a glimmering gallery, till 
he mark'd 

The portal of King Pellam's chapel 



'ide 
And inward to the wall ; hf 

behind; 
Thence in a moment heard the 



stept 



pass 



ike wolves 



Howli 



he stared abou 



;; but wh 

the shrine, 
In which he scare could spy the Christ 

for Saints, 
Beheld before a golden altar lie 
The longest lance his eyes had ever 



Point-pa 



red ; and seizing there- 



jpon 



Push'd thro' an open casement down, 

lean'd on it. 
Leapt in a semicircle, and lit on earth ; 
Then hand at ear, and harkening from 

what side 
The blindfold rummage buried in the 

Might echo, ran the counter path, and 

found 
His charger, mounted on him and 

away. 
An arrow whizz'd to the right, one to 

the left. 
One overhead ; and Pellam's feeble cry 
' Stay, stay him ! he defileth heavenly 

things 





Balin and Balan. 



hly uses' — made him quickly 



Beneath the boughs, and race thro' 

many a mile 
Of dense and open, till his goodly 

horse, 
Arising wearily at a fallen oak, 
Stumbled headlong, and cast him face 

to ground. 

Half-wroth he had not ended, but 

all glad, 
Knightlike, to find his charger yet 

unlamed. 
Sir Balin drew the shield from off his 

neck, 
Stared at the priceless cognizance, 

and thought 
' I have shamed thee so that now thou 

shamest me. 
Thee will I bear no more,' high on a 

branch 
Hung it, and turn'd aside into the 

woods. 
And there in gloom cast himself all 

along. 
Moaning ' My violences, my vio- 
lences ! ' 

But now the wholesome music of 

the wood 
Was dumb'd by one from out the hall 

of Mark, 
A damsel-errant, warbling, as she rode 
The woodland alleys, Vivien, with her 

Squire. 

'The fire of Heaven has kill'd the 

barren cold. 
And kindled all the plain and all the 

wold. , 
The new leaf ever pushes off the old. 
The fire of Heaven is not the flame of 

Hell. 

Old priest, who mumble worship in 
your quire — 
Old monk and nun, ye scorn the 

world's desire. 
Yet in your frosty cells ye feel the 

The fire of Heaven is not the flame of 





The fire of Heaven is on the dusty 

ways. 
The wayside blossoms open to the 

blaze. 
The whole wood-world is one full peal 

not the flame of 

The fire of Heaven is Lord of all 

things good. 
And starve not thou this fire within 

thy blood. 
But follow Vivien thro' the fiery flood ! 
The fire of Heaven is not the flame of 

Hell!' 



Then turning to her Squire 'This 

fire of Heaven, 
This old sun-worship, boy, will rise 

again. 
And beat the cross to earth, and break 

the Ki _ 
And all his Ta 



ible.' 



Then they reach'd a glade. 
Where under one long lane of cloud- 
less air 
Before another wood, the royal crown 
Sparkled, and swaying upon a restless 

elm 
Drew the vague glance of Vivien, and 

her Squire ; 
Amazed were these ; ' Lo there ' she 

cried — ' a crown — 
Borne by some high lord-prince of 

Arthur's hall. 
And there a horse! the rider.' where 

is he? 
See, yonder lies one dead within the 

wood. 
Not dead ; he stirs ! — but sleeping. I 

will speak. 
Hail, royal knight, we break on thy 

sweet rest. 
Not, doubtless, all unearn'd by noble 

deeds. 
But boundenart thou, if from .Arthur's 

hall. 
To help the weak. Behold, I fly from 

shame, 
A lustful King, who sought to win my 

love 





Balin and Balan. 



Thro' evil ways : the knight, with 

rode, 
Hath suffer'd misadventure, and my 

squire 
Hath in him small defence ; but thou, 

Sir Prince, 
Wilt surely guide me to the warrior 

King, 
Arthur the blameless, pure as any 

maid. 
To get me shelter for my maidenhood. 
1 charge thee by that crown upon thy 

shield, 



And Balin rose, ' Thither no more ! 

nor Prince 
Nor knight am I, but one that hath 

defamed 
The cognizance she gave me : here I 

dwell 
Savage among the savage woods, here 

die — 
Die : let the wolves' black maws en- 
sepulchre 
Their brother beast, whose anger was 

his lord. 
O me, that such a name as Guinevere's, 
Which our high Lancelot hath so 

lifted up. 
And been thereby uplifted, should 

thro' nie. 
My violence, and my villainy, come to 

shame.' 

Thereat she suddenly laugh'd and 
shrill, anon 
Sigh'd all as suddenly. Said Balin to 

' Is this thy courtesy — to mock me, ha? 
Hence, for I will not with thee.' Again 

she sigh'd 
' Pardon, sweet lord ! we maidens often 

laugh 
When sick at heart, when rather we 

should weep, 
knew thee wrong'd. I brake upon 

thy rest. 
And now full loth am I to break thy 

dream. 
But thou art man, and canst abide a 

truth. 





Tho' bitter. Hither, bov — and mark 
me well. 

Dost thou remember at Caerleon 
once— 

A year ago — nay, then I love thee not — 

Ay, thou rememberest well — one sum- 
mer dawn — 

By the great tower — Caerleon upon 
Usk— 

Nay, truly we were hidden : this fair 
lord, 

The flower of all their vestal knight- 
hood, knelt 

In amorous homage — knel 



hat 



else.' 



ay 



Knelt, and drew down from out his 
night-black hair 

And mumbled that white hand whose 
ring'd caress 

Had wander'd from her own King's 
golden head. 

And lost itself in darkness, till she 
cried — 

I thought the great tower would crash 
down on both — 

" Rise, my sweet King, and kiss me on 
the lips. 

Thou art my King." This lad, whose 
lightest word 

Is mere white truth in simple naked- 
ness. 

Saw them embrace : he reddens, can- 
not speak. 

So bashful, he I but all the maiden 
Saints, 

The deathless mother-maidenhood of 
Heaven 

Cry out upon her. Up then, ride with 

Talk not of shame! thou canst not, 

an thou would'st. 
Do these more shame than these have 

done themselves.' 

She lied with ease; but horror- 
stricken he, 
Remembering that dark bower at 



Sunnily she smiled 'And even in 
this lone wood. 





Balin and Balan. 



Sweet lord, ye do right well to whisper 



Fools prate, and perish traitors. 
Woods have tongues, 

As walls have ears : but thou shalt go 
with me, 

And we will speak at first exceeding 
low. 

Meet is it the good King be not de- 
ceived. 

See now, I set thee high on vantage 

From whence to watch the time, and 

eagle-like 
Stoop at thy will on Lancelot and the 

Queen." 



She ceased ; his evil spirit upon him 

leapt. 
He ground his teeth together, sprang 

with a yell. 
Tore from the branch, and cast on 

earth, the shield. 
Drove his mail'd heel athwart the 

royal crown, 
Stampt all into defacement, hurl'd it 

Among the forest weeds, and cursed 

the tale. 
The told-of, and the teller. 

That weird yell, 
Unearthlier than all shriek of bird or 

beast, 
Thrill'd thro' the woods ; and Balan 

lurking there 
(His quest was unaccomplish'd) heard 

and thought 
' The scream of that Wood-devil 1 

came to quell ! ' 
Then nearing ' Lo ! he hath slain some 

brother-knight. 
And tramples on the goodly shield to 

His loathing of our Order and the 

Queen. 
My quest, meseems, is here. Or devil 

Guard thou thine head.' Sir Balin 
spake not word, 

ch'd a sudden buckler from 
the Squire, 





And vaulted on his horse, and so they 

crash'd 
In onset, and King Pellam's holy 

spear. 

Reputed to be red with sinless blood, 
Redden'd at once with sinful, for the 

point 
Across the maiden shield of Balan 

prick'd 
The hauberk to the flesh; and Balin's 

horse 
Was wearied to the death, and, when 

they clash'd. 
Rolling back upon Balin, crush'd the 

man 
Inward, and either fell, and swoon'd 

away. 



mutter'd the 
foul- 



Then to her Squ 

damsel ' Fools ! 
This fellow hath wrougli 

nesswith his Queen: 
Else never had he borne her crown, 

nor raved. 
And thus foam'd over at a rival 

name : 
But thou. Sir Chick, that scarce hast 

broken shell. 
Art yet half-yolk, not even come to 

down — 
Who never sawest Caerleon upon 

Usk— 
And yet hast often pleaded for my 

1 ove — 
See what I see, be thou where I have 

been. 
Or else Sir Chick — dismount and 

loose their casques 
I fain would know what manner of 

men they be.' 
And when the Squire had loosed 

them, ' Goodly ! — look ! 
They might have cropt the myriad 

flower of May, 
And butt each other here, like brain- 
less bulls. 
Dead for one heifer ! ' 

Then the gentle Squire 
' I hold them happy, so they died for 



And, Vivien, tho' ye beat 
dog. 





Balin and Balan. 



could die, as now I live, for 
thee.' 

' Live on, Sir Boy,' she cried. ' I 

better |Mize 
The living dog than the dead lion : 

away ! 
I cannot brook to gaze upon the 



But when their foreheads felt the 
cooling air, 

Balin first woke, and seeing that true 
face. 

Familiar up from cradle-time, so wan, 

Crawl'd slowly with low moans to 
where he lay, 

And on his dying brother cast him- 
self 

Dying; and he lifted faint eves; he 
felt 

One near him; all at once they found 
the world, 

.Staring wild-wide ; then with a child- 

And drawing down the dim disastrous 

That o'er him hung, he kiss'd it, 
moan'd and spake ; 

'O Balin, Balin, I that fain had 



thy 
Why had ye not the shield I knew.' 

and why 
Trampled ve thus on that which bare 

the Crown .> ' 

Then Balin told him brokenly, and 
in gasps, 
All that had chanced, and Balan 
I'd again. 



' Brother, I dwelt a day in Pellam's 
hall : 
This Garlon mock'd me, but I heeded 





And one said " 1 
he. 

And hates thee for the 
good knight 

Told me, that twice a \ 
came. 

And sought for Garlon at the castle- 
gates. 

Whom Pellam drove away with holy 
heat. 

I well believe this damsel, and the 

Who stood beside thee even now, the 

" She dwells among the woods " he 

said " and meets 
And dallies with him in the Mouth of 

Hell." 
Foul are their lives ; foul are their 

lips ; they lied. 
Pure as our own true Mother is our 

Queen.' 

' O brother ' answer'd Balin ' woe is 

me ! 
My madness all thy life has been thy 

doom. 
Thy curse, and darken'd all thy day ; 

and now 
The night has come. I scarce can 

see thee now. 
Goodnight ! for we shall never bid 

again 
Goodmorrow— Dark my doom was 

here, and dark 
It will be there. I see thee now no 

more. 
I would not mine again should darken 

thine. 
Goodnight, tri'e brother.' 

Balan answer'd low 

' Goodnight, true brother here ! good- 
morrow there ! 

We two were born together, and we 
die 

Together by one doom : ' and while 
he spoke 

Closed his death-drowsing eyes, and 
slept the sleep 

With Balin, either lock'd in cither's 





rt...i .v„.M.,., i;,.- 

(I,.. !,...rll. 

:■..-... f'o. fh. ^x ,1 





Merlin and Vh 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 

A STORM was coming, but the winds 

were still, 
And in the wild woods of Bioce- 

liande, 
Before an oak, so hollow, huge and 

old 
It look'd a tower of ivied masonwork. 
At MerUn's feet the wily Vivien lay. 

For he that always bare in bitter 
grudge 

The slights of Arthur and his Table, 
Mark 

The Cornish King, had heard a wan- 
dering voice, 

A minstrel of Caerleon by strong 

Blown into shelter at Tintagil, say 
That out of naked knightlike purity 
Sir Lancelot worshipt no unmarried 

girl 
But the great Queen herself, fought in 

her name, 
Sware by her — vows like theirs, that 

high in heaven 
Love most, but neither marry, nor are 

given 
In marriage, angels of our Lord's 

report. 

He ceased, and then — for Vivien 

sweetly said 
(She sat beside the banquet nearest 

Mark), 
' And is the fair example follow'd. 

In Arthur's household ? ' — answer'd 
innocently : 

' Ay, by some few — ay, truly — youths 

that hold 
It more beseems the perfect virgin 

knight 
To worship woman as true wife be- 

}'ond 
All hopes of gaining, than as maiden 




Lanceli 



They place their pride 

and the Queen. 
So passionate for an utter purity 




Beyond the limit of the! 

these. 
For Arthur bound them n^ 



Brave hearts and clean ! and yet — 
God guide them — young.' 

Then Mark was half in heart to 
hurl his cup 

Straight at the speaker, but forebore : 
he rose 

To leave the hall, and, Vivien follow- 
ing him, 

Turn'd to her : 'Here are snakes with- 
in the grass ; 

And you methinks, O Vivien, save ye 
fear 

The monkish manhood, and the mask 
of pure 

Worn by this court, can stir them till 
they sting.' 

And Vivien answer'd, smiling scorn- 
fully, 
'Why fear? because that foster'd at 

t/iy court 
I savor of thy — virtues .' fear them ? 

no. 
As Love, if Love be perfect, casts out 

fear, 
So Hate, if Hate be perfect, casts out 

fear. 
My father died in battle against the 

King, 
My mother on his corpse in open field ; 
She bore me there, for born from 

death was I 
Among the dead and sown upon the 



And then on thee ! and shown the 

truth betimes. 
That old true filth, and bottom of the 

well. 
Where Truth is hidden. Gracious 

lessons thine 
And maxims of the mud! "This 

Arthur pure ! 
Great Nature thro' the flesh herself 

hath made 
Gives him the lie ! There is no being 



pure. 



ithn 





Merlin and Vivien. 



Arthur, I would have thy 

blood. 
Thy blessing, stainless King I I bring 

thee back. 
When I have ferreted out their bur- 
rowings, 
The hearts of all this Order in mine 

hand — 
Ay — so that fate and craft and folly 

close, 
Perchance, one curl of Arthur's golden 

beard. 
To rae this narrow grizzled fork of 

thine 
Is cleaner-fashion'd— Well, I loved 

thee first, 
That warps the wit.' 

Loud laugh'd the graceless Mark. 
But Vivien, into Camelot stealing, 

lodged 
Low in the city, and on a festal day 
When Guinevere was crossing the 

great hall 
Cast herself down, knelt to the Queen, 

and wail'd. 

' Why kneel ye there ? What evil 

have ye wrought.' 
Rise ! ' and the damsel bidden rise 

arose 
And stood with folded hands and 

downward eyes 
Of glancing corner, and all meekly 

' None wrought, but suffer'd much, an 

orphan maid ! 
My father died in battle for thy 

King, 
My mother on his corpse — m open 

field. 
The sad sea-sounding wastes of Lyo- 

nesse — 
Poor wretch — no friend I — and now 

by Mark the King 
For that small charm of feature mine, 

pursued — 
If any such be mine — I fly to thee. 
Save, save me thou — Woman of 

women — thine 
The wreath of beauty, thine the crown 





Be thine the balm of pity, O Heaven's 

own white 
Earth-angel, stainless bride of stain- 
less King- 
Help, for he follows ! take me to thy- 
self ! 
O yield me shelter for mine innocency 
Among thy maidens I ' 

Here her slow sweet eyes 
Fear-tremulous, but humbly hopeful, 

rose 
Fixt on her hearer's, while the Queen 

who stood 
All glittering like May sunshine on 

May leaves 
In green and gold, and plumed with 

green replied, 
' Peace, child ! of overpraise and over- 
blame 
We choose the last. Our noble 

Arthur, him 
Ye scarce can overpraise, will hear 

and know. 
Nay — we believe all evil of thy 



but 



Mark- 



Well, we shall test thee farthe 

this hour 
We ride a-hawking with Sir Lancelot. 
He hath given us a fair falcon which 

he train'd ; 
We go to prove it. Bide ye here the 

while.' 

She past ; and Vivien murmur'd 
after ' Go ! 

I bide the while.' Then thro' the por- 
tal-arch 

Peering askance, and muttering bro- 
kenwise, 

As one that labors with an evil dream. 

Beheld the Queen and Lancelot get to 
horse. 

' Is that the Lancelot ? goodly— ay, 

but gaunt : 
Courteous— amends for gauntness — 

takes her hand — 
That glance of theirs, but for the 

street, had been 
A clinging kiss — how hand lingers in 

hand ! 








zST^ 1 =^^ 


I \ 1 r^ 






Merlm and Vivieti. 247 


1 


Let go at last!— they ride away— to 


Boldness and royal knighthood of the 




hawk 


bird 


. 






For waterfowl. Royaller game is 


Who pounced her quarry and slew it. 






^ mine. 


Many a time «« 




For such a supersensual sensual bond 


As once— of old— among the flowers— 




As that gray cricket chirpt of at our 


they rode. 




hearth- 


< 




Touch flax with flame— a glance will 


But Vivien half-forgotten of the 




serve— the liars ! 


Queen 




Ah little rat that borest in the dyke 


Among her damsels broidering sat. 




Thy hole by night to let the boundless 


heard, watch'd 




deep 


And whisper'd : thro' the peaceful 




Down upon far-off cities while they 


court she crept 




dance— 


And whisper'd: then as Arthur in the 




Or dream— of thee they dream'd not— 


highest 
Leaven'd the world, so Vivien in the 




nor of me 




These— ay, but each of either : ride, 
and dream 


lowest. 




Arriving at a time of golden rest, 




The mortal dream that never yet was 


And sowing one ill hint from ear to 




mine- 


ear. 




Ride, ride and dream until ye wake- 


While all the heathen lay at Arthur's 




to me ! 


feet, 




Then, narrow court and lubber King, 


And no quest came, but all was joust 




farewell ! 


and play, 




For Lancelot will be gracious to the 


Leaven'd his hall. They heard and 
let her be. 




And our wise Queen, if knowing that 






I know. 


Thereafter as an enemy that has 




Will hate, loathe, fear — but honor me 






the more.' 


Death in the living waters, and with- 
drawn, 
The wily Vivien stole from Arthur's 




Yet while they rode together down 




the plain, 


court. 




Their talk was all of training, terms 






of art. 


She hated all the knights, and 




Diet and seeling, jesses, leash and 


heard in thought 




lure. 


Their lavish comment when her name 




' She is too noble ' he said ' to check 


was named. 




at pies. 


For once, when Arthur walking all 




Nor will she rake : there is no base- 


alone. 




ness in her.' 


Ve.xt at a rumor issued from her- 




Here when the Queen demanded as 


self 




by chance 


Of some corruption crept among his 




' Know ye the stranger woman ? ' 


knights. 




' Let her be,' 


Had met her, Vivien, being greeted 




Said Lancelot and unhooded casting 


fair. 




^ oft 


Would fain have wrought upon his ^^ 




, ' The goodly falcon free ; she tower'd ; 


cloudv mood "f 




. 


her bells. 


With reverent eyes mock-loyal, shaken 






Tone under tone, shriU'd , and they 


voice, 






lifted up 


And flutter'd adoration, and at last 






Their eager faces, wondering at the 


With dark sweet hints of some who 




^ 


strength. 


prized him more 




Si \ I \ 1 1 lliv 


1 




Merlin and Vivien. 



most ; at 



Than who should pri 

which the King 
Had gazed upon her blankly and gone 

by: 
But one had watch'd, and had not held 

his peace : 
It made the laughter of an afternoon 
That Vivien should attempt the blame- 
less King. 
And after that, she set herself to gain 
Him, the most famous man of all those 

times, 
Merlin, who knew the range of all 

their arts. 
Had built the King his havens, ships, 

and halls, 
Was also Bard, and knew the starry 

heavens; 
The people call'd him Wizard; whom 

at first 
She play'd about with slight and 

sprightly talk, 
And vivid smiles, and faintly-venom'd 

points 
Of slander, glancing here and grazing 

there ; 
And yielding to his kindlier moods, 

the Seer 
Would watch her at her petulance, and 

play, 
Ey'n when they seem'd unloveable, 

As those that watch a kitten ; thus he 

hat he half disdain'd, 

half dis- 



grew 
Tolerant of 

and she. 
Perceiving that she was bi 

dain'd. 
Began to break her sports with graver 

fits. 
Turn red or pale, would often when 

thev niet 
Sigh fully', or all-silent gaze upon him 
W'ith such a fixt devotion, that the old 

man. 
The' doubtful, felt the flattery, and at 

Would flatter his own wish in age for 

And half believe her true : for thus at 

He waver'd ; but that other clung to 





Fixt in her will, and so the 



Then fell on Merlin a great melan- 
choly ; 

He walk'd with dreams and darkness, 
and he found 

A doom that ever poised itself to 
fall. 

An ever-moaning battle in the mist. 

World-war of dying flesh against the 
life, 

Death in all life and lying in all love. 

The meanest having power upon the 
highest. 

And the high purpose broken by the 



So leaving Arthur's court he gain'd 
the beach ; 
There found a little boat, and slept 



And Vivien foUow'd, but he 



rk'd 



She took the helm and he the sail ; 

the boat 
Drave with a sudden wind across the 

deeps. 
And touching Breton sands, they dis- 

embark'd. 
And then she follow'd Merlin all the 

Ev'n to the wild woods of Broceliande. 

For Merlin once had told her of a 
charm. 

The which if any wrought on anyone 

With woven paces and with waving 
arms, 

The man so wrought on ever seem'd 
to lie 

Closed in the four walls of a hollow 
tower. 

From which was no escape for ever- 
more; 

And none could find that man for ever- 

Nor could he see but him who wrought 

the charm 
Coming and going, and he lay as dead 
And lost to life and use and name and 

fame. 
And Vivien ever sought to work the 

charm 




Merlin and Vivien. 



Upon the great Enchanter of the 

Time, 
As fancying that her glory would be 

great 
According to his greatness whom she 

quench'd. 

There lay she all her length and 

kiss'd his feet, 
As if in deepest reverence and in love. 
A twist of gold was round her hair ; a 

robe 
Of samite without price, that more 

exprest 
Than hid her, clung about her lissome 

limbs. 
In color like the satin-shining palm 
On sallows in the windy gleams of 

March : 
And while she kiss'd them, crying, 

' Trample me. 
Dear feet, that I have foUow'd thro' 

the world, 
And I will pay you worship ; tread me 

down 
And I will kiss you for it ; ' he was 

mute : 
So dark a forethought roll'd about his 

brain. 
As on a dull day in an Ocean cave 
The blind wave feeling round his long 

sea-hall 
In silence: wherefore, when she lifted 

up 
A face of sad appeal, and spake and 

' O Merlin, do ye love me ? ' and again, 
' O Merlin, do ye love me ? ' and once 

more, 
' Great Master, do ye love me ? ' he was 

mute. 
And lissome Vivien, holding by his 

heel, 
Writhed toward him, slided up his 

knee and sat, 
Behind his ankle twined her hollow 

feet 
Together, curved an arm about his 

neck, 
Clung like a snake ; and letting her 

left hand 
Droop from his mighty shoulder, as a 

leaf. 





Made with her right a comb of pearl 

to part 
The lists of such a beard as youth gone 

Had left in ashes : then he spoke and 

said. 
Not looking at her,' ' Who are wise in 

love 
Love most, say least,' and Vivien an- 

swer'd quick, 
' I saw the little elf-god eyeless once 
In Arthur's arras hall at Camelot : 
But neither eyes nor tongue — O stupid 

child ! 
Yet you are wise who say it ; let me 

think 
Silence is wisdom . I am silent then. 
And ask no kiss ; ' then adding all at 

' And lo, I clothe myself with wisdom,' 

drew 
The vast and shaggy mantle of his 

beard 
Across her neck and bosom to her 

knee. 
And call'd herself a gilded summer fly 
Caught in a great old tyrant spider's 

web, 
Who meant to eat her up in that wild 

Without one word. So Vivien call'd 
herself. 

But rather seem'd a lovely baleful star 

Veil'd in gray vapor; till he sadly 
smiled: 

' To what request for what strange 
boon,' he said, 

' Are these your pretty tricks and fool- 
eries, 

Vivien, the preamble ? yet my 

thanks. 
For these have broken up my melan- 
choly.' 

And Vivien answer'd stniliiig sau- 
cily, 
' What, O my Master, have ye found 
your voice ? 

1 bid the strangei 

But yesterday y 
Except indeed to d 





Merlin and Vivien. 



lady palms I cull'd the 

spring 
That gather'd trickling dropwise from 

the cleft, 
And made a pretty cup of both my 

hands 
And offer'd you it kneeling : then you 

drank 
And knew no more, nor gave me one 

poor word ; 
O no more thanks than might a goat 

have given 
With no more sign of reverence than 

a beard. 
And when we halted at that other 

And I was faint to swooning, and you 

lay 
Foot-gilt with all the blossom-dust of 

those 
Deep meadows we had traversed, did 

you know 
That Vivien bathed your feet before 

her own ? 
And yet no thanks : and all thro' this 

wild wood 
And all this morning when I fondled 

you: 
Boon, ay, there was a boon, one not so 



more wise than 



And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers 

and said: 
' O did ye never lie upon the shore. 
And watch the curl'd white of the 

coming wave 
Glass'd in the slippery sand before it 

breaks ." 
Ev'n such a w 

able, 
Dark in the glass of some presageful 

mood, 
Had I for three days seen, ready to fall. 
And then I rose and fled from Arthur's 

court 
To break the mood. You follow'd 

me unask'd ; 
And when I look'd, and saw you 



, but not so pleasur- 





My mind involved yourself the near- 
est thing 

In that mind-mist : for shall I tell you 
truth? 

You seem'd that wave about to break 
upon me 

And sweep me from my hold upon the 
world, 

My use and name and fame. Your 
pardon, child. 

Your pretty sports have brighten'd all 
again. 

And ask your boon, for boon I owe 
you thrice. 

Once for wrong done you by confu- 
sion, next 

For thanks it seems till now neglected, 
last 

For these your dainty gambols : 
wherefore ask ; 

And take this boon so strange and 
not so strange.' 

And Vivien answer'd smiling 

mournfully : 
' O not so strange as my long asking it. 
Not yet so strange as you yourself are 

strange, 
Nor half so strange as that dark mood 

of yours. 
I ever fear'd ye were not wholly mine ; 
And see, yourself have own'd ye did 

me wrong. 
The people call you prophet : let it be : 
But not of those that can expound 

themselves. 
Take Vivien for expounder; she will 

call 
That three-days-long presageful gloom 

of yours 
No presage, but the same mistrustful 

mood 
That makes you seem less noble than 

yourself, 
Whenever I have ask'd this very boon. 
Now ask'd again : for see you not, dear 

love. 
That such a mood as that, which lately 

gloom'd 
Your fancy when ye saw me following 

you. 
Must make me fear still more you are 





Merlin atid Vivi 



Must make me yearn still more to 

prove you mine, 
And make me wish still more to learn 

this charm 
Of woven paces and of waving hands, 
As proof of trust. O Merlin, teach it 



;ht 



ill cha 



The charm 

both to rest/ 

For, grant me some slight power upon 
your fate, 

I, feeling that you felt me worthy trust. 

Should rest and let you rest, knowing 
you mine. 

And therefore be as great as ye are 
named. 

Not muffled round with selfish reti- 
cence. 

How hard you look and how deny- 

O, if you think this wickedness in me, 
That I should prove it on you 

unawares, 
That makes me passing wrathful ; then 

our l)ond 
Had best be loosed for ever : but 

think or not. 
By Heaven that hears I tell you the 

clean truth. 
As clean as blood of babes, as white 

as milk : 
O Merlin, may this earth, if ever I, 
If these uuwitty wandering wits of 

Ev'n in the jumbled rubbish of a 

dream, 
Have tript on such conjectural treach- 
ery- 
May this hard earth cleave to the 

Nadir hell 
Down, down, and close again, and nip 

me flat. 
If I be such a traitress. Yield my 

boon, 
Till which I scare can yield you all I 

am ; 
And grant my re-reiterated wish. 
The great proof of your love : because 

I think. 
However wise, ye hardly know me yet.' 



ed his hand from 





' I never was less wise, however wise. 
Too curious Vivien, tho' you talk of 

trust. 
Than when I told you first of such a 

charm. 
Yea, if ye talk of trust I tell you this. 
Too much I trusted when I told you 

that, 
And stirr'd this vice in you which 

ruin'd man 
Thro' woman the first hour ; for how- 

soe'er 
In children a great curiousness be 

Who have to learn themselves and all 

the world. 
In you, that are no child, for still I 

find 
Your face is practised when I spell the 

lines, 
I call it,— well, I will not call it vice: 
But since you name yourself the sum- 

I wei; 

gnat. 
That settles, beaten back, and beaten 

back 
Settles, till one could yield for weari- 
ness : 
But since I will not yield to give you 

power 
Upon my life and use and name and 

fame. 
Why will ye never ask some other 

boon ? 
Yea, by God's rood, I trusted you too 

much.' 

And Vivien, like the tenderest- 
hearted maid 
That ever bided tryst at village stile, 
Made answer, either eyelid wet with 

' Nay, Master, be not wrathful with 

your maid ; 
Caress' her : let her feel herself for- 



Who feels no heart 

boon. 
I think ye hardly k 

Of " trust me not at all 
all." 



ask another 
the tender 





Merlin and Vivien. 



heard the great Sir Lancelot sing it 
And it shall answer for me. Listen 



" In Love, if Love be Love, if Love 

be ours. 
Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal 

powers ; 
Unfaith in aught is want of faith in 

all. 

" It is the little rift within the lute. 
That by and by will make the music 

And ever widening slowly silence all. 

" The little rift within the lover's 
lute 
Or little pitted speck in garner'd fruit, 
That rotting inward slowly moulders 



" It is not worth the keeping : let it 
go: 
But shall it ? answer, darling, answer. 

And trust me not at all or all in all." 

O Master, do ye love my tender 



And Merlin look'd and half believed 

her true. 
So tender was her voice, so fair her 

face, 
So sweetly gleam'd her eyes behind 

her tears 
Like sunlight on the plain behind a 

shower : 
And yet he ansvver'd half indignantly : 

' Far other was the song that once I 
heard 
By this huge oak, sung nearly where 

For here we met, some ten or twelve 

of us. 
To chase a creature that was current 

then 
these wild woods, the hart with 

golden horns. 





imewhen first the questio 



And noble deeds, the flower of all the 

world. 
And each incited each to noble 

deeds. 
And while we waited, one, the young- 
est of us, 
We could not keep him silent, out he 

flash'd. 
And into such a song, such fire for 

fame. 
Such trumpet-blowings in it, coming 

down 
To such a stern and iron-clashing 

close. 
That when he stopt we long'd to hurl 

together, 
And should have done it ; but the 

beauteous beast 
Scared by the noice upstarted at our 

feet. 
And like a silver shadow slipt away 
Thro' the dim land ; and all day long 

we rode 
Thro' the dim land against a rushing 

wind, 
That glorious roundel echoing in our 

ears. 
And chased the 'flashes of his golden 

horns 
Until they vanish'd by the fairy well 
That laughs at iron — as our warriors 

did— 
Where children cast their pins and 

nails, and cry, 
"Laugh, little well!" but touch it 

"with a sword. 
It buzzes fiercely round the point , and 

there 
We lost him : such a noble song was 

that. 
But, Vivien, when you sang me that 

sweet rhyme, 
I felt as tho' you knew this cursed 



Were jiroving 



on me 





Merlin and Vh<icn. 



And Vivien ansrsvei-'d smiling 

mournfully : 
' O mine have ebb'ji away for ever- 
more. 
And all thro' folio-wing you to this 

wild wood, 
Because I saw you sad, to comfort 

you. 
Lo now, what hearts have men ! they 

never mount 
As high as woman in her selfless 

mood. 
And touching fame, howe'er ye scorn 

my song. 
Take one verse more — the lady speaks 

it— this : 

' " My name, once mine, now thine, 

is closelier mine, 
For fame, could fame be mine, that 

fame were thine. 
And shame, could shame be thine, 

that shame were mine. 
So trust me not at all or all in all." 

' Says she not well ? and there is 

more — this rhyme 
Is like the fair pearl-necklace of the 

Queen, 
That burst in dancing, and the pearls 

were spilt ; 
Some lost, some stolen, some as 

relics kept. 
But nevermore, the same two sister 

pearls 
Ran down the silken thread to kiss 

each other 
On her white neck— so is it with this 

rhyme : 
It lives dispersedly in many hands, 
And every minstrel sings it differ- 
ently : 
Vet is there one true line, the pearl 

of pearls : 
" Man dreams of Fame while woman 

wakes I., lov2." 
Yea ! Love, tho' Love were of the 

grossest, carves 
A portion from the solid present, eats 
And uses, careless of the rest ; but 

Fame, 
The Fame that follows death is 

nothinR to us ; 





A«id what )s Fame in life but half- 

disfame, 
And counterchanged with darkn 

ye yourself 
Know well that Envy calls you Devil's 

son. 
And since ye seem the Master of all 

Art, 
They fain would make you Master of 



all 



'ice. 



And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers 

' I once was looking for a magic 

weed. 
And found a fair young squire who 

sat alone. 
Had carved himself a knightly shield 

of wood. 
And then was painting on it fancied 

Azure, an E.igle rising or, the Sun 
In dexter chief ; the scroll " I follow 

fame." 
And speaking not, but leaning over 

I took his brush and blotted out the 

bird. 
And made a Gardener putting in a 

graff, 
With this for motto, " Rather use 

than fame." 
You should have seen him blush; 

but aftersvards 
He made a stalwart knight. O Viv- 



For 



thinks you think vo 

ell; 

3ve vou somewhat 



and Love 

Should have some rest and pleasure 
in himself, 

Not ever be too curious for a boon, 

Too prurient for a proof against the 
grain 

Of him ye say ye love : but Fame 
with men. 

Being but ampler means to serve man- 
kind. 

Should have small rest or pleasure in 
herself. 

But work as vassal to the Inircr 





Merlin and Vivi 



That dwarfs the petty love of one to 

one. 
Use gave me Fame at first, and Fame 



increasing gave 
my boon I 
What other ? f 



Lo, there 
sought to 



And then did Envy call me Devil's 

son : 
The sick weak beast seeking to help 

herself 
By striking at her better, miss'd, and 

brought 
Her own claw back, and wounded 

her own heart. 
Sweet were the days when I was all 

unknown, 
But when my name was lifted up, the 

Brake on the mountain and I cared 
not for it. 

Right well know I that Fame is half- 
disfame. 

Yet needs must work my work. That 
other fame, 

To one at least, who hath not child- 
ren, vague, 

The cackle of the unborn about the 
grave, 

I cared not for it: a single misty 

Which is the second in a line of stars 
That seem a sword beneath a belt of 

three, 
I never gazed upon it but I dreamt 
Of some vast charm concluded in 

that star 
To make fame nothing. Wherefore, 

if I fear. 
Giving vou power upon me thro' this 

charm. 
That you might play me falsely, hav- 
ing power, 
However well ye think j'e love me 

now 
(As sons of kings loving in pupil.iyc 
I'd to tyrants when they 

came to power) 
rather dread the loss of use than 

fame ; 





so much from wicl; 



If you — and ni 

edness, 
As some wild turn of anger, or a 

mood 

Of overstrain'd affection, it maybe. 
To keep me all to your own self, — or 

else 
A sudden spurt of woman's jeal- 

Should try this charm on whom -ye 
say ye love.' 

And Vivien answer'd smiling as in 

wrath ■ 
' Have I not sworn ? I am not trusted. 

Good! 
Well, hide it, hide it; I shall find it 



Might feel some sudden turn of anger 

born 
Of your misfaith; and your fine 

Is accurate too, for this full love of 

mine 
Without the full heart back may 

merit well 
Your term of overstrain'd. So used 

as I, 
My daily wonder is, I love at all. 
And as to woman's jealousy, O why 

to what end, except'a jealous one. 
And one to make me jealous it I love. 
Was this fair charm invented by your- 
self.' 

1 well believe that all about this 

world 
Ye cage a buxom captive here and 

there. 
Closed in the four walls of a hollow 

tower 
From which is no escape for ever- 



Then the great Master merrily 
answer'd her : 
' Full many a love in loving youth was 

mine ; 
I needed then no charm to keep them 





Merlin and Vivien. 



But youth and love; and that full 
heart of yours 

Whereof ye prattle, may now assure 
you mine ; 

So live uucharm'd. For those who 
wrought it first, 

The wrist is parted from the hand that 
waved. 

The feet unniortised from their ankle- 
bones 

Who paced it, ages back : but will ye 



The legend 



rdon for your 



•There lived a king in the most 

Eastern East, 
Less old than I, yet older, for my 

blood 
Ilath earnest in it of far springs to be. 
A tawny pirate anchor'd in his port, 
Whose bark had plunder'd twenty 

nameless isles ; 
And passing one, at the high peep of 



thousand 



dav 
He saw tv 

boats 
All fighting for a woman on the sea. 
And pushing his black craft among 

them all. 
He lightly scatter'd theirs and brought 

her off, 
With loss of half his people arrow- 



sla 



smooth, so white, so 



They said a light came from her when 

\n& since the pirate would not yield 

her up. 
The King impaled him for his piracy; 
Then made her Queen : but those 

isle-nurtured eyes 
Waged such unwilling tho' 



On all the youth, they sicken'd ; 

oils thinn'd, 
.■Xnd armies waned, for magm 




t-like 
of old fighters' 
■Ives would wor- 




Unbidden, and the brutes of i 
back 

That carry kings in castles, bow'd 
black knees 

Of homage, ringing with their serpent 
hands, 

To make her smile, her golden ankle- 
bells. 

What wonder, being jealous, that he 



His horns of proclamation' 



thro' 



all 



The hundred under-kingdoms that he 

sway'd 
To find a wizard who might teach the 

King 
Some charm, which being wrought 

upon the Queen 
Might keep her all his own : to such a 

one 
He promised more than ever king has 

given, 
A league of mountain full of golden 

mines, 
A province with a hundred miles of 

coast, 
A palace and a princess, all for him : 
But on all those who tried and fail'd, 

the King 
Pronounced a dismal sentence, mean- 
To keep the list low and pretenders 

back. 
Or like a king, not to be trifled with — 
Their heads should moulder on the 

city gates. 
And many tried and fail'd, because 

the charm 
Of nature in her overbore their own : 
And many a wizard brow bleach'd on 

the walls : 
And many weeks a troop of carrion 



ig like a cloud above the gateway 



And Vivien breaking in upon hii 

said : 
' I sit and gather honey ; yet, 

thinks. 
Thy tongue has tript a little: ask thyr- 



The lady never made umvilling war 





Merlin and Vivien. 



With those fine eyes : she had her 

pleasure in it, 
And made her good man jealous with 

good cause. 
And lived there neither dame nor 

damsel then 
Wroth at a lover's loss ? were all 

I mean, as noble, as their Queen was 

fair ? 
Not one to flirt a venom at her eyes. 
Or pinch a murderous dust into her 

drink. 
Or make her paler with a poison'd 

rose ,? 
Well, those were not our days : but 

did they find 
A wizard ? Tell me, was he like to 

thee ? ' 



She ceased, and made her lithe arm 

round his neck 
Tighten, and then drew back, and let 

her eyes 
Speak for her, glowing on him, like a 

bride's 
On her new lord, her own, the first of 



He answer'd laughing, ' Nay, not 

like to me. 
At last they found — his foragers for 

charms — 
A little glassy-headed hairless man, 
Who lived alone in a great wild on 



grew 
So grated down and filed away with 

thought. 
So lean his eyes were monstrous ; 

while the skin 
Clung but to crate and basket, ribs 

and spine. 
And since he kept his mind on one 

sole aim. 
Nor ever touch'd fierce wine, nor 

tasted flesh. 
Nor own'd a sensual wish, to him the 




and shadow- 




Became a crystal, and he saw them 

thro' it. 
And heard their voices talk behind 

the wall, 
And learnt their elemental secrets, 

powers 
And forces ; often o'er the sun's bright 

eye 
Drew the vast eyelid of an inky 

cloud. 
And lash'd it at the base with slanting 



the noon of 



iiist and dr 
I'd and the 



iiig 



When the lake white 

wood roar'd, 
And the cairn'd mountain was a 

shadow, sunn'd 
The world to peace again : here was 

the man. 
And so by force they dragg'd him to 

the King. 
And then he taught the King to charm 

the Queen 
In such-wise, that no man could see 



ho 



her more. 
Nor saw she save the King 

wrought the charm. 
Coming and going, and she lay as 

dead, 
And lost all use of life : but when the 

King 
Made proffer of the league of golden 

mines. 
The province with a hundred miles of 

coast. 
The palace and the princess, that old 

Went back to his old wild, and lived 

on grass. 
And vanished, and his book came 

down to me.' 

And Vivien answer'd smiling 

saucilv : 
' Ye have the book : the charm is 

written in it: 
Good: take my counsel : let me know 

it at once : 
For keep it like a puzzle chest in 

chest, 
With each chest lock'd and padlock'd 

thirty-fold. 





Merlin and Viri 



And whelm all this beneath as vast a 

mound 
A? after a furious battle turfs the slain 
On some wild down above the windy 

deep, 
I yet should strike upon a sudden 

means 
To dig, pick, open, find and read the 

charm : 
Then, if I tried it, who should blame 

me then ? ' 



And smiling as a master smil 
one 
That is not of his school, noi 

school 
Dut that where blind and naked 



brawling judgments, un- 
an.ed, 
iigs all day long, he answer'd 



' Thou read the book, my pretty 

O ay, it is but twenty pages long. 
But every page having an ample 

marge. 
And every marge enclosing in the 

midst 
A square of text that looks a little 

blot, 
The text no larger than the limbs of 

fleas; 
And every square of text an awful 

charm, 
Writ in a language that has long gone 

by. 
So long, that mountains have arisen 

With cities on their flanks — thou read 
the book ! 

And every margin scribbled, crost, and 
cramm'd 

With comment, densest condensation, 
hard 

To mind and eye ; but the long sleep- 
less nights 

Of my long life have made it easy to 

And none can read the text, not even 





ad the comment but 

find the 

charm. 

O, the results are simple ; a mere child 
Might use it to the harm of anyone. 
And never could undo it : ask no more : 
For tho' you should not prove it upon 

me. 
But keep that oath ye sware, ye might, 

perchance. 
Assay it on some one of the Table 

Round, 
And all because ye dream they babble 

of you.' 

And Vivien, frowning in true anger, 

said: 
' What dare the full-fed liars say of 

me ? 
They ride abroad redressing human 

wrongs ! 
They sit with knife in meat and wine 

in horn! 
They bound to holy vows of chastity! 
Were I not woman, I could tell a tale. 
But you are man, you well can under- 
stand 
The shame that cannot be explain'd 

for shame. 
Not one of all the drove should touch 

me : swine I ' 

Then answer'd Merlin careless of 
her words : 
'You breathe but 



Spleen-born, I think, and proofless. If 

ye know. 
Set up the charge ve know, to stand or 

fall ! ' 

And Vivien answer'd frowning 
wrathfuUy : 

' O ay, what sav ye to Sir Valence, him 

Whose kinsman left him watcher o'er 
his wife 

And two fair babes, and went to dis- 
tant lands ; 

Was one year gone, and on returning 
found 

Not two but three .' there lay the reck 
ling, one 





Merlin a?id Vivi 



What said the 



A seven-months' babe had been a truer 

gift. 
Those twelve sweet moons confused 

his fatherhood.' 

Then answer'd Merlin, 'Nay, I 

know the tale. 
Sir Valence wedded with an outland 

dame : 
Some cause had kept him sunder'd 

from his wife : 
One child they had : it lived with her : 

she died : 
His kinsman travelling on his own 

affair 
Was charged by Valence to bring 

home the child. 
He brought, not found it therefore : 

take, the truth.' 



' O ay,' said Vivien, ' overtrue a tale. 

What say ye then to sweet Sir Sagra- 
more. 

That ardent man? "to pluck the 
flower in season," 

.So sa^'S the song, " I trow it is no trea- 
son." 

O Master, shall we call him overcjuick 



And Merlin answer'd, ' Overquick 

art thou 
To catch a loathly plume fall'n from 

the wing 
Of that foul bird of rapine whose whole 



prey 



I kno, 
Puff'd . 



; good name : he i 
, bride. 
:he tale. An angry gust of 



.ng'd 
ist of 
1 torch among the myriad- 



room d 
And many-corridor'd complexities 
Of Arthur's palace : then he found a 



And darkling felt the sculptured f 
round it made it s 





And wearied out made for the couch 

and slept, 
A stainless man beside a stainless 

maid ; 
And either slept, nor knew of other 

there ; 
Till the high dawn piercing the roval 

rose 
In Arthur's casement glimmer'd 

chastely down. 
Blushing upon them blushing, and at 

once 
He rose without a word and parted 

from her : 
But when the thing was blared about 

the court, 
The brute world howling forced them 

into bonds. 
And as it chanced they are happy, be- 
ing pure.' 



' O ay,' said Vivien, ' that we 



ikely 



What say ye then to fair Sir Percivale 

And of the horrid foulness that he 
wrought. 

The saintly youth, the spotless lamb 
of Christ, 

Or some black wether of St. Satan's 
fold. 

What, in the precincts of the chapel- 
yard. 

Among the knightly brasses of the 
graves. 

And by the cold Hie Jacets of the 
dead ! ' 

And Merlin answer'd careless of her 
charge, 

' A sober man is Percivale and pure ; 

But once in life was fluster'd with new- 
wine. 

Then paced for coolness in the chapel- 
yard ; 

Where one of Satan's shepherdesses 
caught 

And meant to stamp him with her 
master's mark ; 

And that he sinned is not belie 

For, look upon his face I — but it iie 
sinn'd. 

The sin that practice burns into the 
blood, 





Merlin and Vivien. 



the one dark hour which 
ngs remorse, 

s, after, of whose fold we 

he, the holy king, whose 

the minster, worse than 



But is your spleen froth'd out, or have 
ye more ? ' 

And Vivien answer'd frowning yet 

in wrath : 
' O ay ; what say ye to Sir Lancelot, 

friend 
Traitor or true ? that commerce with 

the Queen, 
I ask you, is it clamor'd by the child, 
Or whisper'd in the corner do ye 

know it ? ' 



To which he answer'd sadly, 'yea, I 
know it. 

Sir Lancelot went ambassador, at first. 

To fetch her, and she watch'd him from 
her walls. 

A rumor runs, she took him for the 
King, 

So fixt her fancy on him : let them be. 

But have ye no one word of loyal 
praise 

For Arthur, blameless King and stain- 
less man .' ' 



and chuck- 
vho knows 
and does, 



She answer'd with a lo 

ling laugh : 
' Man ! is he man at aL 

and winks .' 
Sees what his fair bride 

and winks 1 
By which the good King means to 

blind himself. 
And blinds himself and all the Table 

Round 
To all the foulness that they work. 

Myself 
Could call him (were it not for woman- 
hood) 
The prettv. popular name such man- 



of all 





Im to his own heart, loath- 

lid: 

tender! O my lieee and 



Then Mer] 
ing, sa 

' O true and 

King! - - 

O selfless man and stainless gentle- 
man, 

Who wouldst against thine own eye- 
witness fain 

Have all men true and leal, all women 



From over-fineness not intelligible 
To things with every sense as false and 

foul 
As the poach'd filth that floods the 

middle street, 
Is thy white blamelessness accounted 

blame ! ' 

But Vivien, deeming Merlin over- 
borne 
By instance, recommenced, and let her 

tongue 
Rage like a fire among the noblest 

names. 
Polluting, and imputing her whole self, 
Defaming and defacing, till she left 
Not even Lancelot brave, nor Gala- 
had clean. 



Her 



rds had issue other than she 



A snowy penthouse for his hollow 

eyes, 
And mu'tter'd in himself, ' Tell /u-r the 

charm ! 
So, if she had it, would she rail on me 
To snare the ne.\t, and if she have it 

not 
So will she rail. What did the wan- 
ton say } 
" Not mount as high ; " we scarce can 

sink as low : 
For men at most differ as Heaven and 

earth. 
But women, worst and best, as Heaven 

and Hell. 





Merlin and Vivien. 



the Table Round, mv friends 
of old ; 
All brave, and many generous, and 

She cloaks the scar of some repulse 



Ih Ir 



I well belii 



tempted then 



Being so bitter : for fine plots may fail, 
Tho' harlots paint their talk as well 

as face 
With colors of the heart that are not 

theirs. 
I will not let her know : nine tithes 

of times 
Face-flatterer and backbiter are the 

And they, sweet soul, that most im- 

Are pronest to it, and impute them- 
selves. 

Wanting the mental range ; or low 
desire 

Not to feel lowest makes them level 
all; 

Yea, they would jjare the mountain to 
the plain. 

To leave an equal baseness ; and in 
this 

Are harlots like the crowd, that if 
they find 

Some stain or blemish in a name of 

Not grieving that their greatest are so 

Inflate themselves with some insane 

delight, 
And judge all nature from her feet of 

clay. 
Without the will to lift their eyes, and 

Her godlike head crown'd with spir- 
itual fire. 

And touching other worlds. I am 
weary of her.' 

He spoke in words part heard, in 
whispers part. 
Half-suffocated in the hoary fell 
And niany-winter'd fleece of throat 



Vivien, gathering somewhat of 
his mood, 





And hearing 'harlot' niutter'd twice 

or thrice, 
Leapt from her session on his lap, and 

stood 
Stiff as a viper frozen ; loathsome 

sight. 
How from the rosy lips of life and 

love, 
Flash'd the bare-grinning skeleton of 

death ! 
White was her cheek ; sharp breaths 

of anger puff'd 
Her fairy nostril out; her hand half- 

clench'd 
Went falterinu sideways downward to 

her belt. 
And feeling ; had she found a dagger 

there 
(For in a wink the false love turns to 

hate) 
She would have stabb'd him ; but she 

found it not : 
His eye was calm, and suddenly she 

took 
To bitter weeping like a beaten child, 
A long, long weeping, not consolable. 
Then her false voice made way, 

broken with sobs : 



' O crueller than was ever told in 

tale. 
Or sung in song ! O vainly lavish'd 

love I 
O cruel, there was nothing wild or 

strange. 
Or seeming shameful — for what shame 

in love. 
So love be true, and not as vours is — 

nothing 
Poor Vivien had not done to win his 

Who call'd her what he call'd her— 

all her crime. 
All — all — the wish to prove him 

wholly hers.' 

She mused a little, and then clapt 
her hands 

Together with a wailing shriek, and 
said : 

' Stabb'd through the heart's affec- 
tions to the heart! 




Merlin and Vivien. 



the ki 



loth- 



Kill'd with a word worse than a life 

of blows ! 
I thought that he was gentle, being 

great : 
O God, that I had loved a smaller 



should have found 
heart. 



a greater 
passion. 



O, I, that flattering 

saw 
The knights, the court, the King, dark 

in your light. 
Who loved to make men darker than 

they are. 
Because of that high pleasure which 

Ihad 
To seat you sole upon my pedestal 
Of worship— I am answer'd, and 

henceforth 
The course of life that seem'd so 

fiowery to me 
With you for guide and master, only 

you, 
Becomes the sea-cliff pathway broken 

short, 
And ending in a ruin — nothing left, 
But into some low cave to crawl, and 

there. 
If the wolf spare me, weep my life 

Kill'd with inutterable unkindliness.' 

She paused, she turn'd away, she 

hung her head. 
The snake of gold slid from her hair, 

the braid 
Slipt and uncoil'd itself, she wept 

afresh. 
And the dark wood grew darker 

toward the storm 
In silence, while his anger slowly died 
Within him, till he let his wisdom go 
For ease of heart, and half believed 

her true : 
Call'd her to shelter in the hollow oak, 
' Come from the storm,' and having 

no reply, 
Gazed at the heaving shoulder, and 

the face 
Hand-hidden, as for utmost grief or 

shame ; 





Then thrice essay'd, Ijy tenderest- 

touching terms. 
To sleek her ruffled peace of mind, in 

At last she let herself be conquer'd by 
him. 

And as the cageling newly flown re- 
turns. 

The seeming-injured simple-hearted 
thing 

Came to her old perch back, and set- 
tled there. 

There while she sat, half-falling from 
his knees. 

Half-nestled at his heart, and since he 
saw 

The .slow tear creep from her closed 
eyelid yet. 

About her, more in kindness than in 
love. 

The gentle wizard cast a shielding 



she dislink'd herself at once and 
and 
:ply 



Her arms upon her breast ac 

stood, 
A virtuous gentlewoman 

wrong'd. 
Upright and flush'd before h: 

she said : 



then 



'Ther 



be now no passages of 
lin henceforward ever- 
vhat I am grossly 



Betwi.x 

more ; 
Since, if I be 

call'd. 
What should be granted which your 

own gross heart 
Would reckon worth the taking ? I 

will go. 
In truth, but one thing now — better 

have died 
Thrice than have ask'd it once — could 

make me stay — 
That proof of trust — so often ask'd in 



How justly, after that vile 

yours, 
I find with grief I I might believe you 

then. 
Who knows ? once more. Lo ! what 

was once to me 





Merlin and Vivien — Lancelot and Elaine. 



fancy, 



hath 



necessity of heart and life. 
Farewell ; think gently of me, for I 

fear 
My fate or folly, passing gayer youth 
For one so o\d, must be to 'love thee 



still. 



But er 
That i: 



thee let me swear once 
lied against thy peace 



May yon just heaven, that darkens 

o'er me, send 
One flash, that, missing all things else, 

may make 
My scheming brain a cinder, if I lie. 

Scarce had she ceased, when out of 

heaven a bolt 
(For now the storm was close above 

them) struck. 
Furrowing a giant oak, and javelining 
With darted spikes and splinters of 

the wood 
The dark earth round. He raised his 

eyes and saw 
The tree that shone white-listed thro' 

the gloom. 
But Vivien, fearing heaven had heard 

her oath, 
And dazzled by the livid-flickering 

fork. 
And deafen'd with the stammering 

cracks and claps 
That follow'd, flying back and crying 



' O Merlin, tho' 

save. 
Yet save me I ' 



hu" 



;'d hii 



dea 



do not love me, 
ng to him and 
protector in her 



And call'd h 

fright, 
Nor yet forgot her practice in her 

fright. 
But wrouG;ht upon his mood and 

hugi'd him close. 
The pale blood of the wizard at her 

Took gayer colors, like an opal 



She blamed herself for telling hearsay 





She shook from fear, and for h 
she wept 

Of petulancv; she call'd him lord and 
liege,' 

Her seer, her bard, her silver star of 
eve. 

Her God, her Merlin, the one passion- 
ate love 

Of her whole life ; and ever overhead 

Bellow'd the tempest, and the rotten 
branch 

Snapt in the rushing of the river-rain 

Above them ; and in change of glare 

Her eyes and neck glittering went and 

came ; 
Till now the storm, its burst of passion 

spent. 
Moaning and calling out of other 

lands. 
Had left the ravaged woodland yet 

once more 
To peace ; and what should not have 

been had been. 
For Merlin, overtalk'd and overworn. 
Had yielded, told her all the charm, 

and slept. 

Then, in one moment, she put forth 

the charm 
Of woven paces and of waving hands, 
And in the hollow oak he lay as dead,. 
And lost to life and use and name and 

fame. 

Then crying ' I have made his glory 

And shrieking out ' O fool ! ' the har- 
lot leapt 

Adown the forest, and the thicket 
closed 

Behind her, and the forest echo'd 
' fool.' 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 

Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable,. 
Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, 
High in her chamber up a tower to 

the east 
Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot ; 






1 




^<tn 1 i-g 9 \ 1 rTK 






Laticelot and Elaine. 263 


Which first she placed where morn- 


Had named them, since a diamond 




■ 


ing's earliest ray 


was the prize. 








JMiaht strike it, and awake her with 








t^ - the gleam ; 


For Arthur, long before they <A5 






Then fearing lusl Of soilure fashion'd 


crown'd him King, 






for it 


Roving the trackless realms of Lyon- 






A case of silk, and braided there- 


nesse. 






npon 


Had found a glen, gray boulder and 






All the devices blazon'd on the shield 


black tarn. 






In their own tinct, and added, of her 


A horror lived about the tarn, and 






wit 


clave 






A border fantasy of branch and flower. 


Like its own mists to all the mountain 






And yellow-throated nestling in the 


side: 
For here two brothers, one a king. 






Nor rested thus content, but day by 


had met 






day. 


And fought together ; but their names 






Leaving her household and good 


were lost ; 






father, climbM 


And each had slain his brother at a 






That eastern LOwer, and entering 


blow ; 






barr'd her door. 


And down they fell and made the glen 






Stript off the case, and read the naked 


abhorr'd : 






shield. 


And there they lay till all their bones 






Now guess'd a hidden meaning in his 


were bleach'd. 






arms, 


And lichen'd into color with the 






Now made a pretty history to herself 


crags : 






Of every dint a sword had beaten in 
it'. 


And he, that once was king, had on a 






And every scratch a lance had made 


Of diamonds, one in front, and four 






upon it, 


aside. 






Conjecturing when and where: this 


And Arthur came, and laboring up 






cut is fresh ; 


the pass. 






That ten years back; this dealt him at 


All in a misty moonshine, unawares 






Caerlvle; 


Had trodden that crown'd skeleton, 






That at Caerleon ; this at Camelot : 


and the skull 






And ah God's mercy, what a stroke 


Brake from the nape, and from the 






was there! 


skull the crown 






And here a thrust that might have 


Roll'd into light, and turning on its 






kill'd, but God 


rims 






Broke the strong lance, and roll'd his 


Fled like a glittering rivulet to the 






enemy down. 


tarn : 






And saved him: so she lived in fan- 


And down the shingly scaur he 






tasy. 


plunged, and caught. 
And set it on his head, and in his 






How came the lily maid by that 


heart 






good shield 


Heard murmurs, ' Lo, thou likewise 






Of Lancelot, she that knew not ev'n 
'T* He left it with her, when he rode to 


Shalt be King.' 






Thereafter, when a King, he had "^ 








tilt 


the gems 








For the great diamond in the diamond 


Pluck'd from the crown, and show'd 








jousts, 


them to his knights. 








Which Arthur had ordain'd, and by 


Saying, ■ These jewels, whereupon I 






{ 


that name 


chanced 




< 


3 1 13 


I \ \ \Ly 












Lancelot and Elaine. 



Divinely, are the kingdom's, not tht 

Ki ' 
For public use : henceforward let 

there be, 
Once every year, a joust for one of 

these : 
For so by nine years' proof we needs 

must learn 
Which is our mightiest, and ourselves 

shall grow 
In use of arms and manhood, till we 

drive 
The heathen, who, some say, shall 

rule the land 
Hereafter, which God hinder.' Thus 

he spoke : 
And eight years past, eight jousts had 

been, and still 
Had Lancelot won the diamond of 

the year. 
With purpose to present them to the 

Queen, 
When all were won ; but meaning all 



yal fancy with a 
realm, had never 



boon 
Worth half 

spoken word. 



Now for the central diamond and 
the last 
And largest, Arthur, holding then his 

Hard on the river nis;h the place 

which now 
Is this world's hugest, let proclaim a 

joust 
At Camelot, and when the time drew 

nigh 
Spake (for she had been sick) to 



you 



sick, my Qu 






To these fair jousts ? ' ' Yea, lord,' 
she said, ' ye know it.' 

' Then will ye miss,' he answer'd, 
' the great deeds 

Of Lancelot, and his prowess in the 



to look on.' And the 
Queen 
Lifted her eyes, and they dwelt 
languidly 





On Lancelot, where he sto&d beside 

the Kin- 
He thinking that he read her meaning 

there, 
' Stay with me, I am sick ; my love is 

more 
Than many diamonds,' yielded; and 

a heart 
Love-loyal to the least wish of the 

Queen 
(However much he yearn'd to make 

complete 
The tale of diamonds for his destined 

boon) 
Urged him to speak against the truth, 

and say, 
' Sir King, mine ancient wound is 

hardly whole, 
And lets m'e from the saddle ; ' and 



the K 
Glanced fir 



mg 



No sooner gon 
began : 



at h 
way. 



n her, and 
than suddenly she 



bla 



lord Sir Lancelot, 
to these fair jousts ? 



'To bla 

Whygo'y 

the knights 
Are half of them our enemies, and 

the crowd 
Will murmur, " Lo the shameless 

ones, who take 
Their |)astime now the trustful King 

is gone!'" 
Then Lancelot vext at having lied in 

' Are ye so wise ? ye were not once so 

My Queen, that summer, when ye 

loved me first. 
Then of the crowd ye took no more 

account 
Than of the myriad cricket of the 

mead. 
When its own voice clings to each 

blade of grass. 
And every voice is nothing. As to 

knights. 
Them surely can I silence with all ease. 
But now my loyal worship is allow'd 
Of all men : many a bard, without 

offence, 





Lancelot and Elaine. 



Has link'd our names together in hi; 



Lancelot, the flower of bravery, 

Guinevere, 
The pearl of beauty : and our knights 

at feast 
Have pledged us in this union, while 

the King 
Would listen smiling. How then? 

is there more ? 
Has Arthur spoken aught? or would 



your 



elf. 



Now \veaj:y of my service and devoir, 
Henceforth be truer to your faultless 
lord ? ' 



She broke 



littk 



scornful 
the fault- 



' Arthur, mv lord, Arth 

less King, 
That passionate perfection, my good 

lord- 
But who can gaze upon the Sun in 

He never spake word of reproach to 



He nev 



had a glimpse of mine 
uth, 

for me : only here 



He cares n 
to-day 

There gleam'd a vague suspicion in 
his eyes : 

Some meddling rogue has tamper'd 
with him — else 

Rapt in this fancy of his Table 
Round, 

And swearing men to vows impossi- 
ble, 
ike them like himself : but. 



To 



friend, 



He is all fault who hath no fault at all : 
For who loves me must have a touch 

of earth ; 
The low sun makes the color : I am 

yours. 
Not Arthur's, as ye know, save by the 

bond. 
And therefore hear my words: go to 

the jousts : 
The tiny-trumpeting gnat can break 

our dream 
When sweetest ; and the vermin 

voices here 





Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief 

of knights : 
' And with what face, after my pretext 

made, 
Shall I appear, O Queen, at Camelot, I 
Before a King who honors his own 

word, 
As if it were his God's ? ' 



Else had he not lost me : but listen to 

me, 
If I must find you wit : we hear it 

said 
That men go down before your spear 

at a touch, 
But knowing you are Lancelot; your 

great name, 
This conquers : hide it therefore ; go 

Win ! by this kiss you will : and our 

true King 
Will then allow your pretext, O my 

knight. 
As all for glory ; for to speak him 

Ye know right well, how meek soe'er 

he seem, 
No keener hunter after glory breathes. 
He loves it in his knights more than 

himself ; 
They prove to him his work : win and 

Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to 
horse, 

Wroth at himself. Not willing to be 
known, 

He left the barren-beaten thorough- 
fare. 

Chose the green path that show'd the 
rarer foot, 

And there among the solitary downs, 

Full often lost in fancy, lost his way; 

Till as he traced a faintly-shadow'd 
track, 

That all in loops and links among the 
dales 




i 




^TH 1 ^^ 


I \ 1 r^ 




266 Lancelot and Elaine. 


] 


Kan to the Castle of Astolat, he saw 


Blank, or at least with some device 




■ - Fired from the west, far on a hill, the 


not mine.' 






tAJ Thither he made, and blew the gate- 


Then said the Lord of Astolat, «^ 




way horn. 


' Here is Torre's : 




Then came an old, dumb, myriad- 


Hurt in his first tilt was my son. Sir 




wrinliled man, 


Torre. 




Who let him into lodging and dis- 


And so, God wot, his shield is blank 




armed. 


enough. 




And Lancelot marvell'd at the word- 


His ye can have.' Then added plain 




less man ; 


Sir Torre, 




And issuing found the Lord of Astolat 


' Yea, since I cannot use it, ye may 




With two strong sons, Sir Torre and 


have it.' 




Sir Lavaine, 


Here laugh'd the father saying, ' Fie, 




Moving to meet him in the castle 


Sir Churl. 




court ; 


Is that an answer for a noble knight ? 




And close behind them slept the lily 


Allow him ! but Lavaine, my younger 




maid 


here, 




Elaine, his daughter: mother of the 


He is so full of lustihood, he will ride, 




house 


Joust for it, and win, and bring it in 




There was not: some light jest 


an hour. 




among them rose 


And set it in this damsel's golden hair. 
To make her thrice as wilful as be- 




With laughter dying down as the 




great knight 


fore.' 




Approach'd them: then the Lord of 






Astolat: 


■Nay, father, nay good father. 




' Whence comest thou, my guest, and 


shame me not 




by what name 


Before this noble knight,' said young 




Livest between the lips ? for by thy 
state 


Lavaine, 
' For nothing. Surely I but play'd on 




And presence I might guess thee 


Torre : 




chief of those, 


He seem'd so sullen, vext he could 




After the King, who eat in Arthur's 


not go : 




halls. 


A jest, no more ! for, knight, the 




Him have I seen : the rest, his Table 


maiden dreamt 




Round, 


That some one put this diamond in 




Known as thev are, to me they are 


her hand. 




unknown.' 


And that it was too slippery to be held. 
And slipt and fell into some pool or 




Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief 


stream. 




of knights: 


The castle-well, belike ; and then I 




Known am I, and of Arthur's hall. 


said 




and known. 


That // 1 went and ;/ I fought and 




What I bv mere mischance have 


won it 




brought, my shield. 
But since I go to joust as one un- 


(But all was jest and joke among our- 




selves) 




known 


Then must she keep it safelier. All 




«Y* At Camelot for the diamond, ask me 


was jest. -^ 






not. 


But, father, give me leave, an if he 






Hereafter ye shall know me-and the 


will, 






shield— 


To ride to Camelot with this noble 






I pray rou lend me one, if such you 


knight : 




^ 


■ have, 

HI \ I 


Win shalMnot,butdomybesttowin: 


CI 1 Hv 




■ 1 




Lancelot and Elaine. 



jlcl I do 






' So ye will grace 

Lancelot, 
Smiling a moment, ' w 

ship 
O'er these 

lost myself. 
Then were 1 glad of you as 



answer'd 
' with your fellow- 
downs whereon I 
de and 

And you shall win this diamond, — as 

I hear 
It is a fair large diamond, — if ye may. 
And yield it to this maiden, if ye will.' 
' A fair large diamond," added plain 

Sir Torre, 
' Such be for queens, and not for 

simple maids.' 
Then she, who held her eyes upon 

the ground, 
Elaine, and heard her name so tost 

about, 
Flush'd slightly at the slight dispar- 



liefore the 

ing 

Full con 



nger knight, who, look- 



, yet not falsely, thus 

' If what is fair be but for what is fair, 
.•\nd only queens are to be counted so. 
Rash were my judgment then, who 

deem this maid 
Might wear as fair a jewel as is on 

earth. 
Not violating the bond of like to like.' 

He spoke and ceased : the lily 
maid Elaine, 

Won by the mellow voice before she 
look'd. 

Lifted her eyes, and read his linea- 
ments. 

The great and guilty love he bare the 
Queen, 

In battle with the love he bare his 
lord. 

Mad marr'd his face, and mark'd it 
ere his time. 

Another sinning on such heights with 




fiend, and 




if all the 



id all the 



Had been the sleeke 



His mood was often like 
rose 

And drove him into wastes and soli- 
tudes 

For agony, who was yet a living soul. 

Marr'd as he was, he seem'd the good- 
liest man 

That ever among ladies ate in hall, 

And noblest, when she lifted up her 
eyes. 

However marr'd, of more than twice 
her years, 

Seem'd with an ancient swordcut on 
the cheek, 

And bruised and bronzed, she lifted 
up her eyes 

And loved him, with that love which 
was her doom. 

Then the great knight, the darling 

of the court. 
Loved of the loveliest, into that rude 

hall 
Stept with all grace, and not with half 

disdain 
Hid under grace, as in a smaller time. 
But kindly man moving among his 

kind : 
Whom they with meats and vintage of 

their best 
And talk and minstrel melody enter- 

tain'd. 
And much they ask'd of court and 

Table Round, 
And ever well and readily answer'd he: 
But Lancelot, when they glanced at 

Guinevere, 
Suddenly speaking of the wordless 

man, 
Heard from the Baron that, ten years 

before, 
The heathen caught and reft him of 

his tongue. 
' He learnt and warn'd me of their 

fierce design 
Against my house, and him they 

caught and maim'd ; 
But I, mv sons, and little daughter 

fled 
From bonds or death, and dwelt 

among the woods 





Lancelot and Elaine. 



By the great 


iver in a boatman's hut. 


Dull days wl 


le those, till our good 


Arthui 


broke 


The Pagan y 


n once more on Badon 


hill.' 





' O there, great lord, doubtless,' La- 

vaine said, rapt 
By all the sweet and sadden passion 

of youth 
Toward greatness in its elder, 'you 

have fought. 
O tell us— for we live apart — you know 
Of Arthur's glorious wars.' And 

Lancelot spoke 
And answer'd him at full, as having 

been 
With Arthur in the fight which all 

day long 
Rang by the white mouth of the vio- 
lent Glem ; 
And in the four loud battles by the 

Of Duglas ; that on Bassa ; then the 

That thunder'd in and out the gloomy 

skirts 
Of Celidon the forest ; and again 
By castle Cxurnion, where the glori- 
ous King 
Had on his cuirass worn our Lady's 

Head, 
Carved of one emerald center'd in a 

sun 
Of silver rays, that lighten'd as he 

breathed ; 
And at Caerleon had he help'd his 

lord. 
When the strong neighings of the 

wild white Horse 
Set every gilded parapet shuddering ; 
And up in Agned-Cathregonion too, 
And down the waste sand-shores of 

Trath Treroit, 
Where many a heathen fell ; ' and on 

the mount 
Of Badon I myself beheld the King 
Charge at the' head of all his Table 

Round, 
And all his legions crying Christ and 



saw hit 





High on a heap of slain, from spur to 

plume 
Red as the rising sun with heathen 

blood, 
And seeing me, with a great voice he 

cried, 
" They are broken, they are broken ! " 

for the King, 
However mild he seems at home, nor 

cares 
For triumph in our mimic wars, the 

jousts — 
For if his own knight cast him down, 

he laughs 
Saying, his knights are better men 

than he — 
Yet in this heathen war the fire of 

God 
Fills him : I never saw his like : there 

No greater leader.' 

While he utter'd this. 
Low to her own heart said the lily 

maid, 
' Save your great self, fair lord ; ' and 

when he fell 
From talk of war to traits of pleas- 
Being mirthful he, but in a stately 

kind — 
She still took note that when the liv- 
ing smile 
Died from his lips, across him came a 

cloud 
Of melancholy severe, from which 

again. 
Whenever in her hovering to and fro 
The lily maid had striven to make 

him cheer. 
There brake a sudden-beaming ten- 
derness 
Of manners and of nature : and she 

thought 
That all was nature, all, perchance, for 

her. 
And all night long his face before her 
lived. 



paints him that his 





Lancelot and Ela 



The shape and color of a mind and 

life, 
Lives for his children, ever at its best 
And fullest ; so the face before her 

lived. 
Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence. 

Of noble things, and held her from 

her sleep. 
Till rathe she rose, half-cheated in 

the thought 
She needs must bid farewell to sweet 

Lavaine. 
First as in fear, step after step, she 

stole 
Down the long tower-stairs, hesitat- 
ing: 
Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in 

the court, 
' This shield, my friend, where is it ? ' 

and Lavaine 
Past inward, as she came from out 



the I 



The 



to his proud horse Lancelot 

turn'd, and smooth'd 
The glossy shoulder, humming to 

himself. 
Half-envious of the flattering hand, 

she drew 
Nearer and stood. He look'd, and 

Than if seven men had set upon him, 

The maiden standing in the dewy 



He had 1 



dream'd she was so beau- 
of sacred 



Then came on him a 

fear, 
For silent, tho' he greeted her, she 

stood 
Rapt on his face as if it were a God's. 
Suddenly flash'd on her a wild desire, 
That he should wear her favor at the 

tilt. 
She braved a riotous heart in asking 

for it. 
' Fair lord, whose name I know not — 

noble it is, 
I well believe, the noblest — will you 

Nav,' 





' Fair lady, since I 

worn 
Favor of any lady in 
Such is my W( 

me, know.' 
' \'ea, so,' she answer'd ; ' then in 

wearing mine 
Needs must be lesser likelihood, 

noble lord. 
That those who know should know 

you.' And he turn'd 
Her counsel up and down within his 

And found it true, and answer'd, 

' True, my child. 
Well, I will wear it : fetch it out to 

me : 
What is it > ' and she told him ' A red 

sleeve 
Broider'd with pearls,' and brought it : 

then he bound 
Her token on his helmet, with a smile 
Saying, ' I never yet have done so 

much 
For any maiden living,' and the blood 
Sprang to her face and fill'd her with 

delight; 
But left her all the paler, when Lavaine 
Returning brought the yet-unblazon'd 

shield. 
His brother's ; which he gave to 

Lancelot, 
Who parted with his own to fair 

Elaine : 
' Do nie this grace, my child, to have 

my shield 
In keeping till I come.' 'A grace to 



She 



' twice 



)-day. 



your squire ! 
Whereat Lavaine said, laughing, ' Lily 

maid, 
For fear our people call you lily maid 
In earnest, let me bring your color 

back ; 
Once, twice, and thrice : now get you 

hence to bed: ' 
So kiss'd her, and Sir Lancelot his 

own hand, 
And thus they moved away : she stay'd 





Lancelot and Ela 



Her bright hair blown about the seri- 
ous face 
Yet rosy-Uindled with her brother's 

kiss- 
Paused by the gateway, standing near 



eld 



I'd their 



In silence, while s\ 

arms far-off 
Sparkle, until they dipt below the 

downs. 
Then to her tower she climb'd, and 

took the shield, 
There kept it, and so lived in fantasy. 

Meanwhile the new companions 
past away 

Far o'er the long backs of the bush- 
less downs. 

To where Sir Lancelot knew there 
lived a knight 

Not far from Camelot, now for forty 
years 

A hermit, who had pray'd, labor'd and 
pray'd, 

And ever laboring hadscoop'd himself 

In the white rock a chapel and a hall 

On massive columns, like a shorecliff 
cave. 

And cells and chambers : all were fair 
and dry ; 

The green light from the meadows 
underneath 

Struck up and lived along the milky 
roofs ; 

And in the meadows tremulous aspen- 
trees 

And poplars made a noise of falling 
showers. 

And thither wending there that night 
they bode. 

But when the next day broke from 

underground. 
And shot red fire and shadows thro' 

the cave, 
'I'hey rose, heard mass, broke fast, and 

rode away : 
Then Lancelot saying, ' Hear, but 

hold my name 
Hidden, you ride with Lancelot of the 

Lake,' 
Ab.ish'd Lavaine, whose instant rever- 




Dear 



vn pr: 




young hearts than their 



But left hii 

indeed.'' 
And after muttering ' The great 

Lancelot,' 
At last he got his breath and answer'd, 

'One, 
One have I seen — that other, our liege 

lord, 
The dread Pendragon, Britain's King 

of kings. 
Of whom the people talk mysteriously. 
He will be there — then were I stricken 

blind 
That minute, I might say that I had 



So spake Lavaine, and when they 

reach'd the lists 
By Camelot in the meadow, let his eyes 
Run thro' the peopled gallery which 

half round 
Lay like a rainbow fall'n upon the 

grass. 
Until they found the clear-faced King, 

who sat 
Robed in red samite, easily to be 

known. 
Since to his crown the golden dragon 

And down his robe the dragon writhed 
in gold. 

And from the carven-work behind him 
crept 

Two dragons gilded, sloping down to 
make 

Arms for his chair, while all the rest 
of them 

Thro' knots and loops and folds innu- 
merable 

Fled ever thro' the woodwork, till they 



The 



found 
new desi 



the 



gn 



Yet with all ease, so tender w 

work : 
And, in the costly canopy o'er h 
Blazed the last diamond of the 

less king. 



they lost 
as the 





Lancelot and Elaine. 



' Me you call great : mine is the 

firmer seat, 
The truer lance : but there is many a 

youth 
Now crescent, who will come to all I 

am 
And overcome it ; and in me there 

dwells 
No greatness, save it be some far-off 

touch 
Of greatness to know well I am not 

There is the man.' And Lavaine 

gaped upon him 
As on a thing miraculous, and anon 
The trumpets blew; and then did 

either side, 
Thev that assail'd, and they that held 

the lists, 
-Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly 

move. 
Meet in the midst, and there so 

furiously 

a man far-off might well 



Shock, 

1 

If any r 



that day were left afield. 
The hard earth shake, and a low 

thunder of arms. 
And Lancelot bode a little, till he 

saw 
Which were the weaker; then he 

hurl'd into it 
Against the stronger: little need to 

speak 
Of Lancelot in his glory ! King, 

duke, earl, 
Count, baron-— whom he smote, he 

overthrew. 



Lancelc 



But in the field 

and kin. 
Ranged with the Table Round th; 

held the lists, 
Strong men, and wrathful that 

stranger knight 
Should do and almost overd 

deeds 
Of Lancelot ; and one said to th< 

other, ' Lo ! 
What is he .' I do not mean the force 



d versatility of the 



kith 



the 





When has 



Is it not Lancelot : 

Lancelot worn 
Favor of any lady in the lists ? 
Not such h'ls wont, as we, that know 

him, know.' 
' How then ? who then ? ' a fury seized 

them all, 
A fiery family passion for the name 
Of Lancelot, and a glory one with 

theirs. 
They couch'd their spears and prick'd 

their steeds, and thus, 
Their plumes driv'n backward by the 

wind they made 
In moving, all together down upon 

Bare, as a wild wave in the wide 

North-sea, 
Green-glimmering toward the summit, 

bears, with all 
Its stormy crests that smoke against 

the skies, 
Down on a bark, and overbears the 

bark. 
And him that helms it, so they over- 
bore 
Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a 

spear 
Down-glancing lamed the charger, and 

a spear 
Prick'd sharply his own cuirass, and 



the head 



his side, and there snapt. 



.in'd. 



did well and wor- 
the 



Then Sir Lava 

shipfully ; 
He bore a knight of old repute 

earth. 
And brought his horse to Lancelot 

where he lay. 
He up the side, sweating with agony, 

got. 
But thought to do while he might yet 

endure. 
And being lustily holpen by the rest. 
His party, — tho' it seem'd half-miracle 
To those he fought with, — drave his 



Back to the barrier ; then the trumpets 





Lancelot and Elaine. 



His party, cried ' Advana 

thy prize 
The diamond ; ' but he ansvvcr'd, 

' Diamond me 
No diamonds ! for God's love, a little 

Prize me no prizes, for my prize is 

death I 
Hence will I, and I charge you, follow 

me not.' 

He spoke, and vanish 'd suddenly 

from the field 
With young Lavaine into the poplar 

grove. 
There from his charger down he slid, 

and sat. 
Gasping to Sir Lavaine, ' Draw the 

lance-head : ' 
' Ah my sweet lord Sir Lancelot,' said 

Lavaine, 
' I dread me, if I draw it, you will 

die.' 
But he, ' I die already with it : draw — 
Draw,' — and Lavaine drew, and Sir 

Lancelot gave 
A marvellous great shriek and ghastly 

groan. 
And half his blood burst forth, and 

down he sank 
For the pure pain, and wholly swoon'd 

Then came the hermit out and bare 



and ther 



There stanch 'd his 

in daily doubt 
Whether to live or die, for 

week 
Hid from the wide world's rumor by 

the grove 
Of poplars with their noise of falling 

showers. 
And ever-tremulous aspen-trees, he 

lay. 

But on that day when Lancelot fled 





Lords of waste marches, kings of 

desolate isles. 
Came round their great Pendragon, 

saying to him, 
' Lo, Sire, our knight, thro' whom we 

won the day. 
Hath gone sore wounded, and hath 

left his prize 
Untaken, crying that his prize is 

death.' 
' Heaven hinder,' said the King, 'that 

such an one. 
So great a knight as we have seen to- 
day- 
He seem'd to me another Lancelot — 
Yea, twenty times I thought him 

Lancelot — 
He must not pass uncared for. 

Wherefore, rise, 

Gawain, and ride forth and find the 

knight. 
Wounded and wearied needs must he 
be near. 

1 charge you that you get at once to 

horse. 
And, knights and kings, there breathes 

not one of you 
Will deem this prize of ours is rashly 

given: 
His prowess was too wondrous. We 

will do him 
No customary honor : since the knight 
Came not to us, of us to claim the 

prize. 
Ourselves will send it after. Rise and 

take 
This diamond, and deliver it, and 

return. 
And bring us where he is, and how 

he fares. 
And cease not from your quest until 



So saying, from the carven flower 

above. 
To which it made a restless heart, he 

took. 
And gave, the diamond : then from 

where he sat 
At Arthur's right, with smiling face 





Lancelot and Elaine. 



ight and flourish of his 

iirnamed The Courteous, 
fair and strong, 

And after Lancelot, Tristram, and 
Geraint 

And Gareth, a good knight, but there- 
withal 

Sir Modred's brother, and the child of 
Lot, 

Nor often loyal to his word, and 

Wroth that the King's command to 

sally forth 
In quest o'f whom he knew not, made 

The banquet, and concourse of knights 
and kings. 

So all in wrath he got to horse and 

went ; 
While Arthur to the banquet, dark in 

mood, 
Past, thinking ' Is it Lancelot who 

hath come 
Despite the wound he spake of, all for 

gain 
Of glory, and hath added wound to 

wound, 
And ridd'n away to die ? ' So fear'd 

the King, 
And, after two days' tarriauce there. 



Then 


when he saw 
embracing ask'd. 


the 


Queen, 


' Love 


, are vou yet so s 
lord,' she said. 


ick 


• 'Nay, 


' And where is Lancelot 


> ' 


Then the 




Queen amazed. 






' Was 


he not with vou 


won he not 



Nay. 



him.' ' Why that 



And when the King demanded how 

she knew. 
Said, ' Lord, no sooner had ye parted 

from us. 
Than Lancelot told me of a common 
talk 

down before his spear 
at a touch, 
knowing he was Lancelot ; his 





Conquer'd; and therefore would 1 

hide his name 
From all men, ev'n the King, and 

this end 
Had made the prete.tt of a hindering 

wound. 
That he might joust unknown of all. 

If his old prowess were in aught 

decay'd ; 
And added, " Our true Arthur, when 

he learns. 
Will well allow my pretext, as for 

gain 
Of purer glory."' 

Then replied the King: 
'Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it 

been. 
In lieu of idly dallying with the truth. 
To have trusted me as he hath trusted 

thee. 
Surely his King and most familiar 



Mighl 



well have kept his secret. 
True, indeed. 
Albeit I know my knights fantastical, 
So fine a fear in our large Lancelot 
Must needs have moved my laughter : 

But little cause for laughter : his own 



111 news, my Queen, for all who love 

him, this !— 
His kith and kin, not knowing, set 

upon him; 
So that he went sore wounded from 

the field : 
Yet good news too : for goodly hopes 



more a lonely 
wont, upon his 



That Lancelot is n 

heart. 
He wore, against h 

helm 
A sleeve of scarlet, broider'd 

great pearls. 
Some gentle maiden's gift.' 



' Yea, lord,' she said, 
'Thy hopes are mine,' and saying 

that, she choked. 
And sharply turn'd about to hide her 

face. 




1 




K 


'i~\ \ \ 1 


5^ 1 u-^ 


-s^ 


1 


J--: 


274 Lancelot and Elaine. 




Past to her chamber, and there flung 


This will he send or come for : 






herself 


furthermore 










Down on the great King's couch, and 


Our son is with him; we shall hear 








eAa writhed upon it, 


anon, W 






And clench'd her fingers till they bit 


Needs must we hear.' To this the 






the palm, 


courteous Prince 






And shriek'd uut 'Traitor' to the 


Accorded with his wonted courtesy. 






unhearing wall. 


Courtesy with a touch of traitor in it. 






Then flash'd into wild tears, and rose 


And stay'd ; and cast his eyes on fair 






again. 


Elaine : 






And moved about her palace, proud 


Where could be found face daintier .' 






and pale. 


then her shape 
From forehead down to foot, perfect 






Gawain the while thro' all the 


—again 






region round 


From foot to forehead e.xuuisitelv 






Rode with his diamond, wearied of 


turn'd : 






the quest, 


' Well— if I bide, lo ! this wild flower 






Touch'd at all points, except the 


for me ! ' 






poplar grove, 


And oft they met among the garden 






And came at last, tho' late, to Asto- 


yews, 






lat: 


And there he set himself to play upon 






Whom glittering in enamell'd arms 


her 






the maid 


With sallving wit, free flashes from a 






Glanced at, and cried, 'What news 


height 






from Camelot, lord ? 


Above her, graces of the court, and 






What of the knight with the red 


songs. 






sleeve ? ' ' He won.' 


Sighs, and slow smiles, and golden 






' I knew it,' she said. ' But parted 


eloruence 






from the jousts 


And amoiciis adulation, till the maid 






Hurt in the side,' whereat she caught 


Rebell'd against it, saving to him, 






her breath ; 


■ Prmce, 






Thro' her own side she felt the sharp 


loyal nephew of our noble King, 






lance go ; 


Why ask you not to see the shield he 






Thereon she smote her hand: well- 


left,' 






nigh she swoon'd : 


Whence you might learn his name? 






And, while he gazed wonderingly at 


Why slight vour King, 






her, came 


And lose the quest he sent you on. 






The Lord of Astolat out, to whom 


and prove 






the Prince 


No surer than our falcon yesterday, 






Reported who he was, and on what 


Who lost the hern we slipt her at, and 






quest 


went 






Sent, that he bore the prize and could 


To all the winds?' 'Nay, by mine 






not find 


head,' said he. 






The victor, but had ridd'n a random 


'I lose it, as we lose the lark in 






round 


heaven. 






To seek him, and had wearied of the 
search. 
M: To whom the Lord of Astolat, ' Bide 


damsel, in the light of your blue 






But an" ve' will it let me see the "^ 








with us, 


shield.' 










And ride no more at random, noble 
Prince ! 


And when the shield was brought,, 
and Gawain saw 










Here was the knight, and here he left 


Sir Lancelot's azure lions, crown'd 








^ 


a shield; 

K, , - 


with gold. 






IJ 1 IS 


!: 1 IE 


y 












Lancelot atid Elaine. 



Ramp in the field, he smote his thigh, 

and mock'd : 
' Right was the King I our Lancelot! 

that true man ! ' 
' And right was I,' she answer'd 

merrily, ' I, 
Who dream'd my knight the greatest 

knight of all.' 
• And if / dream'd,' said Gawain, 

' that yon love 
This greatest knight, your pardon ! 

lo, ye know It ! 
Speak therefore: shall I waste myself 

Full simple was her answer, ' What 
know I ? 

My brethren have been all my fellow- 
ship ; 

And I, when often they have talk'd of 

Wish'd it had been my mother, for 

they talk'd, 
Meseem'd', of what they knew not ; 

so myself — 
I know not if I know what true love 

is, 
But if I know, then, if I love not 

him, 
I know there is none other I can love.' 
' Vea, by God's death,' said he, 'ye 

love him well. 
But would not, knew ye what all 

others know. 
And whom he loves.' ' So be it,' 

cried Elaine, 
And lifted her fair face and moved 

away : 
But he pursued her, calling, ' Stay a 

little ! 
One golden minute's grace ! he wore 

your sleeve : 
Would he break faith with 

not name ? 
Must our true man change 

Nay- 



me 1 may 

ike a leaf 



-like enow : why then, far br it 

from me 
To cross our mighty Lancelot in his 

loves ! 
And, damsel, for I deem you know 





My quest with you ; the diamond also : 

here ! 
For if you love, it will be sweet 

And if he love, it will be sweet to have 

From your own hand ; and whether he 

love or not, 
A diamond is a diamond. Fare vou 

well 
A thousand times !— a thousand times 

farewell ! 
Yet, if he love, and his love hold, we 

two 
May meet at court hereafter : there, I 

think, 
So ye will learn the courtesies of the 



We 



1 shall know each other.' 



Then he gave. 
And slightly kiss'd the hand to which 

he gave, 
The diamond, and all wearied of the 

quest 
Leapt on his horse, and carolling as 

he went 
A true-love ballad, lightly rode away. 

Thence to the court he past ; there 

told the King 
What the King knew, ' Sir Lancelot 

is the knight.' 
And added, 'Sire, my liege, so much I 

learnt ; 
But fail'd to find him tho' I rode all 

round 
The region : but I lighted on the maid 
Whose sleeve he wore; she loves 

him ; and to her. 
Deeming our courtesy is the truest 

I gave the diamond: she will render 

it; 
For by mine head she knows his h id- 

ing-place.' 

The seldom-frowning King frown'd, 
and replied, 
' Too courteous truly 1 ye shall : 



On que 



, seeing that ye for 





Lancelot and Elaine. 



Obedience is the courtesy du< 
Icings.' 

He sjialce and parted. Wroth, 



strokes of the blood, with- 

Linger'd that other, staring after him ; 
Then shoolc his hair, strode off, and 

l)uzz'd abroad 
About the maid of Astolat, and lier 

All ears were prick'd at once, all 

tongues were loosed ■ 
' Tlie maid of Astolat loves .Sir Lance- 



Lancelot 



the 



maid of Asto- 
face, some the 
naid might be. 



Some read the King's 

Queen'.s, and all 
Had marvel what the r 

but most 
Predoom'd her as unworthy. One old 

dame 
Came suddenly on the Queen with the 

sharp news. 
She, that had heard the noise of it 

But sorrowing Lancelot should have 
have stoop'd so low, 

Marr'd her friend's aim with pale tran- 
quillity. 

So ran the tale like fire about the 
court, 

Fire in drv stubble a nine-days' wonder 
flared : 

Till ev'n the knights at banquet 
twice or thrice 

Forgot to drink to Lancelot and the 

And pledging Lancelot and the lily 



Smiled at each othe 
who sat 



whi 



: the Qu 



With lips severely placid, felt the knot 
Climb in her throat, and with her feet 

unseen 
Crush'd the wild passion out against 




r.eneath the banqui 

became 
As wormwood, and she hated 

pledged. 



the meats 
who 




But far away the maid in Astolat, 
Her guiltless rival, she that ever kept 
The one-day-seen Sir Lancelot in her 

heart, 
Crept to her father, while he mused 

Sat on his knee, stroked his gray face 

and said, 
' Father, vou call me wilful, and the 

fault 
Is yours who let me have my will, and 

now, 
Sweet father, will you lei me lose my 

wits?' 
' Nay,' said he, ' surely.' ' Wherefore, 

let me hence,' 
She answer'd, ' and find out our dear 



Bide 



lose your wits for dear 
r'd he : ' we needs must 



Of him, and of that other.' ' Ay,' she 

said, 
' And of that other, for I needs must 

hence 
And find that other, wheresoe'er he 

be, 
And with mine own hand give his 

diamond to him. 
Lest I be found as faithless in the 

quest 
As yon proud Prince who left the 



my 



Sweet father, I behold him 

dreams 

Gaunt as it were the skeleton of him- 
self, 
Death-pale, for lack of gentle maiden's 

aid. 
The gentler-born the maiden, the more 

bound. 
My father, to be sweet and serviceable 
To noble knights in sickness, as )'e 

know 
When these have worn their tokens : 

let me hence 
I pray you.' Then her father nodding 

said, 
' Av, ay, the diamond : wit ve well, niv 

child. 
Right fain were I to learn this knight 

were whole, 














^ 


Lancelot a 


nd Elaine. 277 


>\ 




Being our greatest: yea, and you 


Past up the still rich citv to his kiii, 




- 




His own far blood, which dwelt at -tfl- 








And sure"! think this fruit is hung too 


Camelot ; IF 






^ high 


And her, Lavaine across the poplar '^ 






P^r any mouth to gape for save a 


grove 






queen's — 


Led to the caves : there first she saw 






Nay, I mean nothing: so then, get 


the casque 






you gone. 


Of Lancelot on the wall : her scarlet 






Being so very wilful you must go.' 


sleeve, 
Tho' carved and cut, and half the 






Lightly, her suit allow'd, she slipt 


pearls awav, 






away, 


Stream'd from it still; and in her 






And while she made her ready for her 


heart she laugh'd. 






ride, 


Because he had not loosed it from his 






Her father's latest word humm'd in 


helm, 






her ear. 


But meant once more perchance to 






' Being so very wilful you must go,' 


tourney in it. 






And changed itself and echo'd in her 


And when they gain'd the cell wherein 






heart. 


he slept, 






'Being so very wilful you must die.' 


His battle-writhen arms and mighty 






But she was happy enough and shook 


hands 






it off, 


Lay naked on the wolfskin, and a 






As we shake off the bee that buzzes at 


dream 
Of dragging down his enemy made 
them move. 






And in her heart she answer'd it and 






said. 


Then she that saw him lying unsleek. 






' What matter, so I help him back to 


unshorn, 






life.'- 


Gaunt as it were the skeleton of him- 






Then far away with good Sir Torre 


self, 






for guide 


Utter'd a little tender dolorous cry. 






Rode o'er the long backs of the bush- 


The sound not wonted in a place so 






less downs 


still 






To Camelot, and before the city-gates 


Woke the sick knight, and while he 






Came on her brother with a happy face 


rolW his eyes 






Making a roan horse caper and curvet 


Yet blank from sleep, she started to 






For pleasure all about a field of flow- 


him, saying. 






ers • 


' Your prize the diamond sent you by 






Whom when she saw, ' Lavaine,' she 


the King:' ^ 






cried, ' Lavaine, 


His eyes glisten'd: she fancied ' Is it 






How fares my lord Sir Lancelot?' 
He amazed, 


for me ? ' 






And when the maid had told him all 






'Torre and p:iaine ! why here? Sir 


the tale 






Lancelot ! 


Of King and Prince, the diamond 






How know ye my lord's name is 


sent, the quest 






Lancelot?' 


Assign 'd to her not worthy of it, she 






But when the maid had told him all 


knelt 






JY> her tale, 


Full lowlv by the corners of his bed, ^ 






Then turn'd Sir Torre, and being in 


And laid the diamond in his open "^ 






- 


his moods 


hand. 










Left them, and under the strange- 


Her face was near, and as we kiss the 










statued gate. 


child 










Where Arthur's wars were render'd 


That does the task assign'd, he kiss'd 








^ 


mystically. 


her face. 


\ 




U 1 1 ^ 


I 1 1 LLvi 








Lancelot and Elaine. 



At once she slipt like water to the 

floor. 
' Alas,' he said, ' your ride hath 

wearied you. 
Rest must you have.' ' No rest for 

me,' she said; 
Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at 

rest.' 
What might she mean by that ? his 

large black eyes. 
Yet larger thro' his leanness, dwelt 

uiion her. 
Till all lier heart's sad secret blazed 

it.^elf 
In the heart's colors on her simple 

face; 
And Lancelot look'd and was per- 

plext in mind. 
And being weak in body said no 

more ; 
Kut did not love the color; woman's 

love. 
Save one, he not regarded, and so 

Sighing, and feign'd a sleep until he 
slept. 

Then rose Elaine and glided thro' 
the fields. 

And past beneath the weirdly-sculpt- 
ured gates 

Far up the dim rich citv to her kin ; 

There bode the night :'but woke with 

Down thro' the dim rich city to the 

fields, 
Thence to the cave : so day by day 

she past 
In either twilight ghost-like to and fro 
Gliding, and every day she tended 

him. 
And likewise many a night: and 

Lancelot 
Would, tho' he call'd his wound a 

little hurt 
Whereof he should be quickly whole. 



•ous in his heat and agony, 
us, even he : but the meek 
rbore him ever, being to 





Meeker than any child to a rough 

Milder than any mother to a sick 

child. 
And never woman yet, since man's 

first fall. 
Did kindlier unto man, but her deep 

love 
Upbore her ; till the hermit, skill'd in 

ail 
The simples and the science of that 

time, 
Told him that her fine care had saved 

his lite. 
And the sick man forgot her simple 

blush. 
Would call her friend and sister, 

sweet Elaine, 

for her coming and 

step, and held her 

And loved her with all love except 

the love 
Of man and woman when they love 

their best. 
Closest and sweetest, and had died 

the death 
In any knightly fashion for her sake. 
And peradventure had he seen her 

first 
She might have made this and that 

other world 
Another world for the sick man ; but 

The shackles of an old love straiten'd 

him, 
His honor rooted in dishonor stood. 
And faith unfaithful kept him falsely 



lid listen 
regret 



Yet the great knight in his mid- 
sickness made 

Full many a holy vow and pure 
resolve. 

These, as but born of sickness, could 




For when the blood ran lustier in him ' 


•5 


Full often the bright image of one 

Making a treacherous quiet in his 
heart, 




] 




cclot and Elaine. 



Dispersed his resolution like a cloud. 
Then if the maiden, while that 

ghostly grace 
Beam'd on his fancy, spoke, he 

Or short and coldly, and she knew 

right well 
What the rough sickness meant, but 

what this meant 
She knew not, and the sorrow dimm'd 

her sight, 
And drave her ere her time across the 

fields 
Far into the rich city, where alone 
She murmur'd, 'Vain, in vain: it 

cannot be. 
He will not love me : how then ? 



Then as 
bin 
That has but one plain 



ttle helpless innocent 
age of few 



Will sing the .simple passage o'er and 

o'er 
For all an April morning, till the ear 
Wearies to hear it, so the simple 

maid 
Went half the night repeating, ' Must 

Idle?' 
And now to right she turn'd, and now 

to left. 
And found no ease in turning or in 

rest ; 
And 'Him or death,' she mutter'd, 

' death or him,' 
Again and like a burthen, ' Him or 



death.' 



But 



To Astola 



Sir Lancelot's deadly 
as whole, 

^turning rode the three. 
There morn by morn, arraying her 

sweet self 
In that wherein she deem'd she look'd 

her best, 
She came before Sir Lancelot, for she 

thought 
'If I be loved, these are my festal 

robes. 
If not, the -.i. .;;l.'s flowers before he 



And Lancelot ever prest upon the 
maid 





That she should ask some goodly gift 

of him 
For her own self or hers ; ' and do 

To speak the wish most near to your 

true heart ; 
Such service have ye done me, that I 

make 
My will of yours, and Prince and 

Lord am I 
In mine own land, and what I will I 

can.' 
Then like a ghost she lifted up her face. 
But like a ghost without the power to 

speak. 
And Lancelot saw that she withheld 

her wish. 
And bode among them yet a little 

space 
Till he should learn it ; and one morn 

it chanced 
He found her in among the garden 

yews, 
And said, ' Delay no longer, speak 

your wish, 

then out she 

' Going .' and we shall never see you 

more. 
And I must die for want of one bold 

word.' 
' Speak : that I live to hear,' he said, 

' is yours.' 
Then suddenly and passionately she 

spoke : 
' I have gone mad. I love you : let 

me die.' 
'Ah, sister,' answer'd Lancelot, 'what 

is this ? • 
And innocently extending her white 

arms, 
' Vour love,' she said, 'your love — to 

be your wife.' 
And Lancelot answer'd, ' Had I 

chosen to wed, 
I had been wedded earlier, sweet 

Elaine : 
But now there never will be wife o£ 



No, 1 



3,' she cried, ' I care 
wife, 
3ut to be with you still, to see y 
face. 



to be 





Lancelot and Elaine. 



follow you tliro' 

celot answer'd, ' Nav, the 

world, the world, 
All ear and eye, with such a stupid 

heart 
To interpret ear and eye, and such a 

tongue 
To blare its own interpretation — nay, 
Full ill then should I quit your 

brother's love, 
And your good father's kuidness.' 

And she said, 
' Not to be with you, not to see your 

face — 
Alas for me then, my good days are 

done.' 
' Nav, noble maid,' he answer'd, ' ten 



This is n 


It love 


: but love's firs 


t flash 




vouth, 






Most CO 




yea, I know 


it of 




le owi 


self: 




And you 


n self 


elf will smile a 


t your 


Hereafter, whei 


vou yield voiM 


flower 


of 


life 






To one 


more fitly yours, not 


thrice 


And th'ci 


will I 


for true vou a 


re and 



Beyond mine old belief in womanhood. 
More specially should your good 

knight be poor, 
Endow you with broad land and terri- 

Even to the half my realm beyond the 



that 



uld 



iiake you happy : fur- 



Ev'n to the death, as tho' ye were my 

blood. 
In all your quarrels will I be your 

k'uighl. 
This will I do, dear damsel, for your 

sake. 
And more than this I cannot.' 



Stood p;ras])ing what wa 
replied : 





'Of all this will I nothing 

fell. 
And thus they bore her swoon 

her tower. 



Then spake, to whom thro' those 
black walls of yew 

Their talk had pierced, her father : 
' Ay, a flash, 

I fear me, that will strike my blossom 
dead. 

Too courteous are ye, fair Lord Lance- 
lot. 

I pray you, use some rough discour- 
tesy 

To blunt or break her passion.' 



And there that d; 



I'd, and to- 



ward even 
Sent for his shield : full meekly rose 

the maid, 
Stript off the case, and gave the naked 

shield ; 
Then, when she heard his horse upon 

the stones. 
Unclasping flung the casement back, 

and look'd 
Down on his helm, from which her 

sleeve had gone. 
And Lancelot knew the little clinking 

sound; 
And she by tact of love was well aware 
That Lancelot knew that she was look- 
ing at him. 
And yet he glanced not up, nor waved 

his hand. 
Nor bad farewell, but sadly rode 

away. 
This was the one discourtesy that he 

used. 



So in her tower alone the r 
His very shield was gone ; 



aiden sat: 
only the 



But still she heard h 
ure form'd 

And grew bet 
ured wa 




n poor work, her empty labor, 
II his pict- 
i the pict- 




Lancelot and Elaine. 



came her father, saying in lov^ 



• Have comfort,' whom she greeted 

quietly. 
Then came her brethren saying, ' Peace 

to thee, 
Sweet sister,' whom she answer'd with 

all calm. 
But when they left her to herself 

again. 
Death, like a friend's voice from a dis- 
tant field 
Approaching thro' the darkness, call'd; 

the owls 
Wailing had power upon her, and she 

mixt 
Her fancies with the sallow-rifted 

glooms 
Of evening, and the moanings of the 



And in those days she made a little 

song. 
And call'd her song ' The Song of 

Love and Death,' 
And sang it : sweetly could she make 

and sing. 

' Sweet is true love tho' given in 

vain, in vain ; 
And sweet is death who puts an end 

to pain : 
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 

' Love, art thou sweet .' then bitter 
death must be : 
Love, thou art bitter ; sweet is death 



' Sweet love, that seems not m 
to fade away, 
Sweet death, that seems to make 

loveless clay, 
I know not which is sweeter, no, no 



' I fain would follow love, if that 
could be ; 
I needs must follow death, who calls 





High with the las 

voice, and this, 
All in a fiery dawning wild with wind 
That shook her tower, the brothers 

heard, and thought 
With shuddering, ' Hark the Phantom 

of the house 
That ever shrieks before a death,' and 

call'd 
The father, and all three in hurry and 

fear 
Ran to her, and lo ! the blood-red 

light of dawn 
Flared on her face, she shrilling, ' Let 

me die I ' 

As when we dwell upon a word we 

Repeating, till the word we know so 

well 
Becomes a wonder, and we know not 

why. 
So dwelt the father on her face, and 

thought 
' Is this Elaine .' ' till back the maiden 

fell. 
Then gave a languid hand to each, 

and lay. 
Speaking a still good-morrow with her 

eyes. 
At last she said, ' Sweet brothers, 

yesternight 
I seem'd a curious little maid again, 
As happy as when we dwelt among 

the woods. 
And when ye used to take me with 

the flood 
Up the great river in the boatman's 

boat. 
Only ye would not pass beyond the 

cape 
That has the poplar on it : there ye fi.xt 
Your limit, oft returning with the tide. 
And yet I cried because ye would not 

pass 
Beyond it, and far up the shining 

flood 
Until we found the palace of the King. 
And yet ye would not ; but this night 

I dream'd 
That I was all alone upon the flood, 
And then I said, " Now shall I have 

my will:" 





Beyond the poplar and far up the 

flood, 
Until I find the palace of the King. 
There will I enter in among them all, 
And iio man there will dare to mock 

at me ; 
But there the fine Gawain will wonder 

at me, 
And there the great Sir Lancelot 

muse at me ; 
Gawain, who bad a thousand farewells 

to me, 
Lancelot, who coldly went, nor bad 

And there the King will know me and 

And there the Queen herself will pity 

And all the gentle court will welcome 

And after my long voyage I shall 



' Peace,' said her father, ' O my 

child, ye seem 
Light-headed, for what force is yours 

to go 
So far, being sick ? and wherefore 

would ye look 
On this proud' fellow again, who scorns 

us all ? ' 

Then the rough Torre began to 

heave and move, 
And bluster into stormy sobs and say, 
'I never loved him: an I meet with 

him, 
I care not howsoever great he be. 
Then will I strike at him and strike 



hin 



Give 



good fortune, I will strike 
him dead. 
For this discomfort he hath done the 
house.' 

To whom the gentle sister made 
reply, 

self, dear brother, nor 
be wroth, 




Seeing it is no more Sir Lancelot's 

fault 
Not to love me, than it is mine to love 
Him of all men who seems to me the 

highest.' 

'Highest?' the father answer'd, 

echoing ' highest.' ' 
(He meant to break the passion in 

her) ' nay. 
Daughter, I know not what you call 

the highest ; 
But this I know, for all the people 

know it. 
He loves the Queen, and in an open 

shame : 
And she returns his love in open 

shame ; 
If this be high, what is it to be low .' ' 

Then spake the lily maid of Asto- 

' Sweet father, all too faint and sick 

am I 
For anger : these are slanders : never 

Was noble man but made ignoble 

talk. 
He makes no friend who never made 

a foe. 
But now it is my glory to have loved 
One peerless, without stain: so let me 

pass. 
My father, howsoe'er I seem to you, 
Not all unhappy, having loved God's 

best 
And greatest, tho' my love had no 



Yet, seeing you desire 



child 



Thanks, but 3'on work against your 
own desire ; 

For if I could believe the things you 
say 

I should but die the sooner; where- 
fore cease. 

Sweet father, and bid call the ghostly 
man 

Hither, and let me shrive me clean. 



So when the ghostly man had come 
and gone. 





Lancelot and Elaine. 



■She with a face, bright as for sin for- 
given, 

Besought Lavaine to write as she 
devised 

A letter, word for word ; and when he 






' Is it fo 

lo 

Then w 



is it for 



dear 



■ill I bear it gladly ; ' she 

replied, 
' For Lancelot and the Queen and all 

the world, 
But I myself must bear it.' Then he 

The letter she devised ; which being 

And folded, ' O sweet father, tender 

and true, 
Deny me not,' she said — 'ye never yet 
Denied my fancies — this, however 

My latest : lay the letter in my hand 

A little ere I die, and close the hand 

Upon it ; I shall guard it even in 
death. 

And when the heat is gone from out 
my heart. 

Then take the little bed on which I 
died 

For Lancelot's love, and deck it like 
the Queen's 

For richness, and me also like the 
Queen 

In all I have of rich, and lay me on it. 

And let there be prepared a chariot- 
bier 

To take me to the river, and a barge 

Be ready on the river, clothed in black. 

Queen. 
There surely I shall speak for mine 

own self, 
And none of you can speak for me so 

And therefore let our dumb old man 
.alone 
ith me, he 



that palace, to the 
■ father promised ; 





She grew so cheerful that they de 

her death 
Was rather in the fantasy than the 

blood. 
But ten slow mornings past, and on 

the eleventh 
Her father laid the letter in her hand. 
And closed the hand upon it, and she 

died. 
So that day there was dole in Astolat. 

But when the ne.xt sun brake from 

Then, those two brethren slowly with 

bent brows 
Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier 
Past like a shadow thro' the field, that 

shone 
Full-summer, to that stream whereon 

the barge, 
Pall'd all its length in blackest samite, 

lay. 
There sat the lifelong creature of the 

house. 
Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck. 
Winking his eves, and twisted all his 

face. 
So those two brethren from the chariot 

And on the black decks laid her in her 

bed. 
Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hung 
The silken case with braided blazon- 

ings. 
And kiss'd her quiet brows, and say- 
ing to her 
' Sister, farewe 
' Farewell, swe( 

tears. 
Then rose the dumb old servitor, and 

the dead, 
Oar'd bv the dumb, went upward with 

tl'ie flood- 
In her right hand the lily, in her left 
The letter — all her bright hair stream- 
ing down— 
And all the coverlid was cloth of gold 
Drawn to her waist, and she herseU' in 

white 
All but her face, and that clear-feat- 
ured face 
Was lovelv, for she did 



/er,' and agaii 
,' parted all ii 





the palace 
o give at 
his costly 
nth bruise 



That daj' Sir Lancelot 

craved 
Audience of Guinevere, 

last 
The price of half a reali 

gift, 
Hard-won and hardly woi 

and blow, 
With deaths of others, and almost his 

own, 
The nine-years-fought-for diamonds : 

for he saw 
One of her house, and sent him to the 

Queen 
Bearing his wish, whereto the Queen 

agreed 
With such and so unmoved a majesty 
She might have seem'd her statue, but 

that he, 
Low-drooping till he wellnigh kiss'd 

her feet 
For loyal awe, saw with a sidelong eye 
The shadow of some piece of pointed 



lace, 



shadow, vibrate on the 
his courtly 



All in an oriel on the summer side, 
Vine-clad, of Arthur's palace toward 

the stream, 
They met, and Lancelot kneeling 

utter'd, 'Queen, 
Lady, my liege, in whom I have my 

joy. 

Take, what I had not won except for 

you. 
These jewels, and make me happy, 

making them 
An armlet for the roundest arm on 

earth. 
Or necklace for a neck to which the 



wnier than 
are words ; 
Your beauty is your beauty, and I 




ygnet's : these 
jeauty, and 
In speaking, yet O grant my worsh 



umors fly ? these, as I 
own noble- 
that vou 



Words, as we grant gri( 

sin in words 
Perchance, we both can pardon : but, 

my Queen, 
I hear of rumors flying thro' your 

Our bond, as not the bond of man 

and wife. 
Should have in it an absoluter trust 
To make up that defect : let rumors 

be : 
When did r 

trust 
That you trust me in y 

ness, 
I may not well beli 

believe.' 

While thus he spoke, half turn'd 

away, the Queen 
Brake from the vast oriel-embowering 

vine 
Leaf after leaf, and tore, and cast 

them off, 
Till all the place whereon she stood 

was green ; 
Then, when he ceased, in one cold 

Received at once and laid aside the 

gems 
There on a table near her, and 

replied : 

' It may be, I am quicker of belief 
Than you believe me, Lancelot of the 

Lake. 
Our bond is not the bond of man and 

wife. 
This good is in it, whatso'er of 

ill, 
It can be broken easier. I for you 
This many a year have done despite 

and wrong 
To one whom ever in my heart of 

hearts 
I did acknowledge nobler. What are 

these.' 
Diamonds for me ! they had been 

thrice their worth 
Being your gift, had you not lost your 

own. 
To loyal hearts the value of all 

gifts 




i 




1 




r?m 1 1 s s 1 ^^n 


1 




i 


Lancelot and Elaitie. 285 


Must vary as the giver's. Not for 


Lav smiling, like a star in blackest 




■ 


me ! 


night. 










For her ! for your new fancy. Only 










«Aa this 


But the wild Queen, who saw not, *^ 






Grant me, I pray you : have your 


burst awav 






joys apart. 
I doubt not that however changed, 


To weep and wail in secret ; and the 






barge. 






you keep 


On to the palace-doorway sliding. 






So much of what is graceful : and 


paused. 






myself 
Would shun to break those bounds of 


There two stood arm'd, and kept the 






door ; to whom, 






courtesy 


All up the marble stair, tier over tier, 






In which as Arthur's Queen I move 


Were added mouths that gaped, and 






and rule: 


eyes that ask'd 






So cannot speak my mind. An end to 


'What is it.'' but that oarsman's 






this ! 


haggard face. 






A strange one 1 yet I take it with 


As hard and still as is the face that 






Amen. 


men 






So pray you, add my diamonds to her 


Shape to their fancy's eve from 






pearls ; 


broken rocks 






Deck her with these; tell her, she 


On some cliff-side, appall'd them, and 






shines me down : 


they said. 






An armlet for an arm to which the 


' He is enchanted, cannot speak— and 






Queen's 


she, 






Is haggard, or a necklace for a neck 


Look how she sleeps— the Fairy 






O as much fairer— as a faith once 


Queen, so fair ! 






fair 


Yea, but how pale 1 what are they !• 






Was richer than these diamonds— 


flesh and blood? 






. hers not mine- 


Or come to take the King to Fairy- 






Nay, by the mother of our Lord him- 


land .' 






self. 


For some do hold our Arthur cannot 






Or hers or mine, mine now to work 


die, 






my will- 


But that he passes into Fairyland.' 






She shall not have them.' 


While thus they babbled of the 






Saying which she seized. 


King, the King 






And, thro' the casement standing 


Came girt with knights: then turn'd 






wide for heat, 


the tongueless man 






Flung them, and down they fiash'd, 


From the half-face to the full eye. 






and smote the stream.' 


and rose 






Then from the smitten surface fiash'd, 


And pointed to the damsel, and 'he 






as it were, 


doors. 






Diamonds to meet them, and thev 


So Arthur bad the meek Sir Percivale 






past away. 


And pure Sir Galahad to uplift the 






Then while Sir Lancelot leant, in half 


maid; 






disdain 


And reverently ihey bore her into 






At love, life, all things, on the window 


•«"• ^ 






T ledge. 


Then came the fine Gawain and T 








Close underneath his eves, and right 


wonder'd at her, 










across 


And Lancelot later came and mused 










Where these had fallen, slowly past 


at her. 










the barge 


And last the Queen herself, and pitied 








{ 


Whereon the Tily maid of Astolat 


her: 


\ 




\ 


El 1 1 ^ 


SI \ Hy 











1 


[Z^ 1 l-g 9 1 1 FTKl 1 


1 


286 Lancelot and Elaine. ' ' ' 


But Arthur spied the letter in her 


I swear by truth and knighthood that 1 


' 


hand. 


I gave -ll 


, ' Stoopt, took, brake seal, and read it ; 


No cause, not wdlingly, for such a II 


«^ this was all : 


love : <AJ 




To this I call my friends in testi- 


' Most noble lord, Sir Lancelot of 


mony, 


tiie Lake, 


Her brethren, and her father, who 


I, sometime call'd the maid o£ Asto- 


himself 


lat. 


Besought me to be plain and blunt, 


Come, for you left me taking no fare- 


and use. 


well,' 


To break her passion, some discour- 


Hither, to take my last farewell of 


tesy 


you. 


Against my nature: what I could, I 


I loved you, and my love had no 


did. 




I left her and I bad her no farewell ; 


And therefore my true love has been 


Tho', had I dreamt the damsel would 


my death. 


have died. 


And therefore to our Lady Guinevere, 


I might have put my wits to some 


And to all other ladies, I make moan : 


And help'd her from herself.' 


Pray for my soul, and yield me 
Pray for my soul thou too. Sir Lance- 


Then said the Queen 


^ lot,' 


(Sea was her wrath, yet working 


As thou art a knight peerless.' 


after storm) 




' Ye might at least have done her so 


Thus he read ; 


much grace. 


And ever in the reading, lords and 


Fair lord, as would have help'd her 


dames 


from her death.' 


Wept, looking often from his face 


He raised his head, their eyes met 


who read 


and hers fell. 


To hers which lay so silent, and at 


He adding. 


times, 


' Queen, she would not be content 


So touch'd were they, half-thinking 


Save that I wedded her, which could 


that her lips. 


not be. 


Who had devised the letter, moved 


Then mic;ht she follow me thro' the 


again. 


world, she ask'd ; 




It could not be. I told her that her 


Then freely spoke Sir Lancelot to 




them all: 


Was but the flash of youth, would 


• Mv lord liege Arthur, and all ye 


darken down 


' that heir. 


To rise hereafter in a stiller flame 


Know that for this most gentle maid- 


Toward one more worthy of her— 


en's death 


then would I, 


Right heavy am I ; for good she was 


More specially were he, she wedded, 


and true, 


poor. 


Uut loved me with a love beyond all 


Estate them with large land and terri- 


«v» '"^"^ 


tory 
In mine own realm beyond the narrow "^T 


, In women, whomsoever I have 




known. 


seas. 




Yet to be loved makes not to love 


To keep them in all joyance : more 




again ; 


than this 




Not at my years, however it hold in 


I could not ; this she would not, and 


y 


youth. 


she died.' 


HI \ 1 i, 1 1 njyi 


1 



— 






~ 




x 


T71 1 -i-a 


? \ 4. PTT 


1 




Xj 


Lancelot and Elaine. 287 ' 


He pausing, Arthur answer'd, 'O 


' That is love's curse ; pass on, my 




- 


my kniiht. 


Queen, forgiven.' 


. 








It will be to thy worship, as my 


But Arthur, who beheld his cloudy 








tAis knight, 


brows, «^ 






And mine, as head of all our Table 


Approach'd him, and with full affec- 






Round, 


tion said. 






To see that she be buried worship- 








fully.' 


'Lancelot, my Lancelot, thou in 
whom I have 






So toward that shrine which then in 


Most joy and most affiance, for I know 






all the realm 


What thou hast been in battle by my 






Was richest, Arthur leading, slowly 


side. 






went 


And many a time have watch'd thee 






The marshaird Order of their Table 


at the tilt 






Round, 


Strike down the lusty and long prac- 






And Lancelot sad beyond his wont, to 


tised knight, 






see 


And let the younger and unskiU'd go 






The maiden buried, not as one 


by 






unknown. 


To win his honor and to make his 






Nor meanly, but with gorgeous obse- 


name. 






quies. 


And loved thy courtesies and thee, a 






And mass, and rolling music, like a 








queen. 


Made to be loved ; but now I would 






And when the knights had laid her 


to God, 






cornel V head 


Seeing the homeless trouble in thine 






Low in the dust of half-forgotten 


eyes. 






kings. 


Thou couldst have loved this maiden, 






Then Arthur spake among them, ' Let 


shaped, it seems. 






her tomb 


By God for thee alone, and from her 






Be costlv, and her image thereupon, 


face, 






And let the shield of Lancelot at her 
feet 


If one may judge the living by the 
dead, 






Be carven, and her lily in her hand. 


Delicately pure and marvellously fair. 






And let the story of her dolorous 


Who might have brought thee, now a 






voyage 


lonely man 






For all true hearts be blazon'd on her 


Wifeless and heirless, noble issue, 






tomb 


sons 






In letters gold and azure ! ' which was 


Born to the glorv of thy name and 






wrought 


fame, ' 






Thereafter; but when now the lords 


My knight, the great Sir Lancelot of 






and dames 


the Lake.' 






And people, from the high door 








streaming, brake 


Then answer'd Lancelot, ' Fair she 






Disorderly, as homeward each, the 


was, my King, 






Queen, 


Pure, as you ever wish your knights 






Who mark'd Sir Lancelot where he 


to be. 






moved apart, 


To doubt her fairness were to want an 






M* Drew near, and sigh'd in passing. 


eye, 'T 








' Lancelot, 


To doubt her pureness were to want a 










Forgive me; mine was jealousy in 


heart- 










love.' 


Yea, to beloved, if what is worthy love 
Could bind him, but free love will not 










He answer'd with his eyes upon the 










ground, 


be bound.' 


! 














The Holy Grail. 



. ' Free love, so bound, were freest,' 

said the King. 
' Let love be free ; free love is for the 

best: 
And, after heaven, on our dull side of 

death, 
What should be best, if not so pure a 

love 
Clothed in so pure a loveliness? yet 

thee 
She fail'd to bind, tho' being, as I 

think. 
Unbound as yet, and gentle, as I 

And Lancelot answer'd nothing, but 

he went. 
And at the inrunning of a little brook 
Sat by the river in a cove, and 

watch'd 
The high reed wave, and lifted up his 

eyes 
And saw the barge that brought her 

moving down. 
Far-off, a blot upon the stream, and 

said 
Low in himself, ' Ah simple heart and 

sweet. 
Ye loved me, damsel, surely with a 

love 
Far tenderer than my Queen's. Pray 

for thy soul ? 
Ay, that will I. Farewell too — now at 

last- 
Farewell, fair lily. " Jealousy in 

love ? " 
Not rather dead love's harsh heir, 

jealous pride ? 
Queen, if I grant the jealousy as of 

love. 
May not your crescent fear for name 

and fame 
Speak, as it waxes, of a love that 

Why did the King dwell on my name 

to me ? 
Mine own name shames me, seeming a 

reproach, 
Lancelot, whom the Lady of the Lake 
Caught from his mother's arms — the 

one 
Who passes thro' the vision of the 

night- 





She chanted snatches of mysterious 

hymns 
Heard on the winding waters, eve and 

morn 
She kiss'd me saying, "Thou art fair, 

my child. 
As a king's son," and often in her 

arms 
She bare me, pacing on the dusky 

mere. 
Would she had drown'd me in it, 

where'er it be! 
For what am I ? what profits me my 

name 
Of greatest knight ? I fought for it, 

and have it : 
Pleasure to have it, none ; to lose it, 

pain; 
Now grown a part of me : but what 

use in it ? 
To make men worse by making my 

sin known ? 
Or sin seem less, the sinner seeming 

great .> 
Alas for Arthur's greatest knight, a 

man 
Not after Arthur's heart I I needs 

must break 
These bonds that so defame me : not 

without 
She wills it: would I, if she will'd it? 

nay. 
Who knows ? but if I would not, then 

may God, 
I pray him, send a sudden Angel down 
To seize me by the hair and bear me 

far. 
And fling me deep in that forgotten 

mere. 
Among the tumbled fragments of the 



Sogroan'd Sir Lancelot in remorse- 
ful pain, 
Not knowing he should die a holy 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 
From noiseful arms, and acts of 
In tournament or tilt. Sir Percivale, 





The Holy Grail. 



Whom Arthur and his knighthood 

call'd The Pure, 
Had pass'd into the silent life of 

prayer, 
Praise, fast, and alms; and leaving for 

the cowl 
The helmet in an abbey far away 
From Camelot, there, and not long 

after, died. 



ik among the 
mnch beyond 



And one, a fellow-m( 

rest, 
Ambrosius, loved him 

the rest. 
And honor'd him, and wrought into 

his heart 
A way by love that waken'd love within. 
To answer that which came : and as 

they sat 
Beneath a world-old yew-tree, darken- 

ing half 
The cloisters, on a gustful April morn 
That puff'd the swaying branches 

i-Hto smoke 
Above them, ere the summer when he 

died. 
The monk Ambrosius question'd Per- 



' O brother, I have seen this yew- 
tree smoke, 

Spring after spring, for half a hun- 
dred years : 

For never have I known the world 
without. 

Nor ever stray'd beyond the pale : 
but thee. 

When first thou earnest— such a 
courtesy 

Spake thro' the limbs and in the 
voice — I knew 

For one of those who eat in Arthur's 
hall; 

For good ye are and bad, and like to 



Some 



Stamp'd with the 

and now 
Tell me, what drove thi 

Table Round, 
IMy brother ? was it earthly pass 

crost ? ' 




light, but every one 
image of the King ; 
the 




' Nay,' said the knight ; ' for no 

such passion mine. 
But the sweet vision of the Holy 

Grail 

Drove me from all vainglories, rival- 
ries, 
And earthly heats that spring and 

sparkle out 
Among us in the jousts, while women 

watch 
Who wins, who falls; and waste the 

spiritual strength 
Within us, better offer'd up to 

Heaven.' 

To whom the monk : ' The Holy 

We are green in Heaven's eyes ; but 

here too much 
We moulder — as to things without I 

Yet one of your own knights, a guest of 

ours. 
Told us of this in our refectory, 
But spake with such a sadness and so 

low 
We heard not half of what he said. 

What is it ? 
The phantom of a cup that comes and 

goes ? ' 

' Nay, monk ! what phantom ? ' an- 

swer'd Percivale. 
' The cup, the cup itself, from which 

our Lord 
Drank at the last sad supper with his 

own. 
This, from the blessed land of Aro- 

After the day of darkness, when the 

dead 
Went wandering o'er Moriah — the 

good saint 
Arimathaean Joseph, journeying 

brought 
To Glastonbury, where the winter 

thorn 
Blossoms at Christmas, mindful of 

our Lord. 
And there awhile it bode ; and if a 




1 


/<tn 1 1 A ? \ 1 m 








- 290 T/ie Holy Grail. 


By faith, of all his ills. But then the 


' And he to whom she told her sins, 


4} 


times 


or what 


. 




l| 


Grew to such evil that the holy cui) 


Her all but utter whiteness held for 






<^ Was caught away to Heaven, and 
disappear'd.' 


sin, **» 




A man wellnigh a hundred winters 

old, 
Spake often with her of the Holy 




To whom the monk : ' From our 




old books I know 


Grail, 




That Joseph came of old to Glaston- 


A legend handed down thro' five or 




bury, 


si.\. 




And there the heathen Prince, Arvi- 


And each of these a hundred winters 




ragus, 


old. 




Gave him an isle o£ marsh whereon to 


From our Lord's time. And when 




build; 


King Arthur made 




And there he built with wattles from 


His Table Round, and all men's 




the marsh 


hearts became 




A little lonely church in days of 


Clean for a season, surely he had 




yore. 
For so they sav, these books of ours. 


That now the Holy Grail would come 




but seem' 


again ; 




Mute of this miracle, far as I have 


But sin broke out. Ah, Christ, that 




read. 


it would come, 




Kut who first saw the holy thing to- 


And heal the world of all their wicked- 




day?' 


"O Father 1" asked the maiden. 




' A woman,' answer'd Percivale, ' a 


" might it come 




nun. 


To me by praver and fasting.'" 




And one no further off in blood from 


" Nay," said he, 
" I know not, for thy heart is pure as 




Than sister; and if ever holy maid 


snow." 




With knees of adoration wore the 


And so she pray'd and fasted, till the 




stone. 


sun 




A holy maid ; tho' never maiden 


Shone, and the wind blew, thro' her. 




glow'd. 


and I thought 




But that was in her earlier maiden- 


She might have risen and floated when 
I saw her. 




hood. 




With such a fervent flame of human 






love, 


' For on a day she sent to speak 




Which being rudely blunted, glanced 


with me. 




and shot 


And when she came to speak, behold 




Only to holy things; to prayer and 


her eyes 




praise 


Beyond my knowing of them, beauti- 




She gave herself, to fast and alms. 


ful. 




And yet. 


Beyond all knowing of them, wonder- 




Nun as she was, the scandal of the 


ful. 




Court, 


Beautiful in the light of holiness. 




Sin against Arthur and the Table 


And "O my brother Percivale," she 




^ ^Round, 


said, <^ 




J 


And the strange sound of an adulter- 


" Sweet brother, I have seen the Holy 








ous race. 


Grail : 








Across the iron grating of her cell 


For, waked at dead of night, I heard 








Beat, and she pray'd and fasted all 


a sound 






^ 


the more. 


As of a silver horn from o'er the hills 


■ 




3 1 13 ir=* — M-tuy 










The Holy Grail. 



Blown, and I thought, ' It is not 

Arthur's use 
To hunt by moonlight;' and the 

slender sound 
As from a distance beyond distance 

grew 
Coming upon me — O never harp nor 

horn, 
Nor aught we blow with breath, or 

touch with hand. 
Was like that music as it came ; and 

then 
Stream'd thro' my cell a cold and 

silver beam. 
And down the long beam stole the 

Holy Grail, 
Rose-red with beatings in it, as if 

alive. 
Till all the white walls of my cell were 

dyed 
With rosy colors leaping on the wall : 
And then the music faded, and the 

Grail 
Past, and the beam decay'd, and from 

the walls 
The rosv quiverings died into the 

night. 
So now the Holy Thing is here again 
Among us, brother, fast thou too and 

prav, 
And tell thy brother knights to fast 

and pray. 
That so perchance the vision may be 

seen 
By thee and those, and all the world 

be heal'd." 

'Then leaving the pale nun, I 
spake of this 
To all men ; and myself fasted and 

pray'd 
Alwavs, and many among us many a 

even to the utter- 

onder that would 



Fasted and pray 

most. 
Expectant of the 




there was among 



white armor, Galahad. 
' God make thee good as thou ai 
beautiful," 




Said Arthur, when he dubb'd 

knight ; and none, 
In so young youth, was ever made a 

knight 
Till Galahad ; and this Galahad, when 

he heard 
My sister's vision, fiU'd me with 

amaze ; 
His eyes became so like her own, 

they seeni'd 
Hers, and himself her brother more 

than I. 

'Sister or brother none had he; 
but some 
Call'd him a son of Lancelot, and 

Begotten by enchantment — chatterers 

they. 
Like birds of passage piping up and 



at gape 


for flies— «e 


know 


not 


whence they come ; 






r when w 


as Lancelot « 


nnder 


nfly 


lewd .' 









' But she, the wan sweet maiden, 

shore away 
Clean from her forehead all that 

wealth of hair 
Which made a silken mat-work for her 

feet; 
And out of this she plaited broad and 

long 
A strong sword-belt, and wove with 

silver thread 
And crimson in the belt a strange 

device, 
A crimson grail within a silver beam , 
And saw the bright boy-knight, and 

bound it on him, 
Saying, "My knight, my love, my 

knight of heaven, 
O thou, my love, whose love is one 

with mine, 
I, maiden, round thee, maiden, bind 

my belt. 
Go forth, for thou shalt see what I 

have seen. 
And break thro' all, till one will crown 

thee king 
Far in the spiritual city :" and as she 

spake 





The Holy Grail. 



She sent the deathless passion in her 

eyes 
Thro' him, and made him hers, and 



On hi 



d he believed in her belief, 
ime a year of miracle : O 



'Then c 

In our great hall there stood a vacant 

chair, 
Fashion'd by Merlin ere he past away, 
And carven with strange figures ; and 

The figures, like a serpent, ran a scroll 

Of letters in a tongue no man could 
read. 

And Merlin call'd it "The Siege per- 
ilous," 

Perilous for good and ill ; " for there," 
he said, 

" No man could sit but he should lose 

And once by misadvertence Merlin 

In his own chair, and so was lost ; 
but he, 

Galahad, when he heard of Merlin's 
doom, 

Cried, " If I lose myself, I save my- 
self ! " 

' Then on a summer night it came 
to pass. 
While the great banquet lay along the 



And all 



there we 



A cracking and a riving of the roofs, 

And rending, and a blast, and over- 
head 

Thunder, and in the thunder was a 
cry. 

And in the blast there smote along the 
hall 

A beam of light seven times more 
clear than 'day : 

And down the long beam stole the 
Holy Grail 

All over cover'd with a luminous 
cloud, 





And none might see who bare it, and 

it past. 
But every knight beheld his fellow's 

face 
As in a glory, and all the knights 

arose. 
And staring each at other like dumb 

Stood, till I found a voice and sware 



' I sware a vow before them all, that 

Because I had not seen the Grail, 

would ride 
A twelvemonth and a day in quest of 

Until I found and saw it, as the 

nun 
My sister saw it; and Galahad sware 

the vow. 
And good Sir Bors, our Lancelot's 

cousin, sware, 
And Lancelot sware, and many among 

the knights. 
And Gawain sware, and louder than 

the rest.' 

Then spake the monk .\mbrosiiis. 
asking him, 
'What said the King? Did Arthur 
take the vow ? ' 

' Nav, for mv lord,' said Percivale, 
' the King, 
Was not in hall : for early that same 

Scaped thro' a cavern from a bandit 

hold. 
An outraged maiden sprang into the 

hall 
Crying on help : for all her shining 

hair 
Was smear'd with earth, and either 



ilky arm 

t with hooks of bi 
all she wore 
Torn as a sail that leaves 



Red-i 



nble, and 



the King arose and 





The -Holy Grail. 



That made such honey in hi; 
Howbeit 
ittle o£ this marvel 



Returning o'er the plain that then 

began 
To darken under Camelot ; whence 

the King 
Look'd up, calling aloud, " Lo, there ! 

the roofs 
Of our great hall are roU'd in thunder- 
smoke ! 
Pray Heaven, they be not smitten by 

the bolt." 
For dear to Arthur was that hall of 

ours, 
As having there so oft with all his 

knights 
Feasted, and as the stateliest under 

heaven. 

' O brother, had you known our 
mighty hall. 

Which Merlin built for Arthur long 
ago! 

For all the sacred mount of Came- 
lot, 

And all the dim rich city, roof by 

Tower after tower, spire beyond spire. 

By grove, and garden-lawn', and rush- 
ing brook, 

Climbs to the mighty hall that Merlin 
built. 

And four great zones of sculpture, set 
betwixt 

With manv a mystic symbol, gird the 
hall: ■ 

And in the lowest beasts are slaying 
men. 

And in the second men are slaying 
beasts, 

And on the third are warriors, perfect 



And on the fourth i 



ith ! 




tatue in the mould 
by Merlin, with 



grow- 
ing wings. 

And over all on 

Of Arthur, ma 
crown. 

And peak'd wings pointed to the 
Northern .Star. 

And eastward fronts the statue, and 
the crown 




And both the wings are made of gold, 

and flame 
At sunrise till the people in far fie 
Wasted so often by the heathen 

hordes. 
Behold it, crying, " We have still a 

' ' And, brother, had you known our 

hall within. 
Broader and higher than any in all the 

lands ! 
Where twelve great windows blazon 

Arthur's wars. 
And all the light that falls upon the 

board 
Streams thro' the twelve great battles 

of our King. 
Nay, one there is, and at the eastern 

end. 
Wealthy with wandering lines of 

mount and mere. 
Where Arthur finds the brand E.xcali- 

bur. 
And also one to the west, and > 



And blank : and who shall blazon it ? 

when and how .' — 
O there, perchance, when all our wars 

are done. 
The brand Excalibur will be cast 

away. 

' So to this hall full quickly rode the 

King, 
In horror lest the work by Merlin 

wrought, 
Dreamlike, should on the sudden 

vanish, wrapt 
In unreniorseful folds of rolling fire. 
And in he rode, and up I glanced, and 

The golden dragon sparkling over all : 
And many of those who burnt the 

hold, their arms 
Hack'd, and their foreheads grimed 

with smoke, and sear'd, 
Follow'd, and in among bright faces, 

ours. 
Full of the vision, prest : and then 

the King 
Spake to me, being nearest, " Perci- 





The Holy Grail. 



(Because the hall was all in ti 
Vowing, and some protesting). 



* O brother, when I told hiin what 

had chanced. 
My sister's vision, and the rest,, his 

face 
Darken'd, as I have seen it more than 

once. 
When some brave deed seem'd to be 

done in vain, 
Darken ; and " Woe is me, my 

knights," he cried. 



" Had 1 been 
Bold' 



ye had not sworn 
'Had thyself 



yea," said he, 
Art thou so bold and hast i 
the Grail ? " 



lid, I 



' " Nay, lord, I heard the 

saw the light, 
But since I did not see the Holy 

Thing, 
I sware a vow to follow it till I saw." 



knight by 



' Then when he ; 

knight, if an 

Had seen it, all the 



' " Ln now," said Arthur, " have 
seen a cloud ? 
What go ye into the wilderness 



' Then Galahad on the sudden, and 
in a voice 
Shrilling along the hall to Arthur, 

call'd, 
"But I, Sir Arthur, saw the Holy 
Grail, 
saw the Holy Grail and heard a 

O Galahad, and O Galahad, follow 




' " Ah, Galahad, Galahad 
King, " for such 

As th( • ■ 

these. 

Thy holy nun and thou h; 

Holier 
A sign 




lid the 
lOt for 
seen a 

none, my Percivale, than 

she— 

n to maim this Order which I 

made. 
But ye, that follow but the leader's 

bell " 
(Brother, the King was hard upon his 

knights) 
"Taliessin is our fullest throat of 



Lancelot is Lancelot, and hath over- 
borne 

Five knights at once, and every 
younger knight, 

Unproven, holds himself as Lance- 
lot, 

Till overborne by one, he learns — and 



What 



ye. 



Per 



ye ? Galahads ? — no, nor 
ivales " 
it pleased the King to 



(For thu 

range me close 
After Sir Galahad) ; " nay," said he, 

" but men 
With strength and will to right the 

wrong'd, of power 
To lay the sudden heads of violence 

flat. 
Knights that in twelve great battles 

splash'd and dyed 
The strong White Horse in his own 

heathen blood — 
But one hath seen, and all the blind 



Go, 



■ vows are sacred, being 
of all my 



:e yoi 

made : 
Yet — for ye know the cr 

realm 
Pass thro' this hall — how often, O my 

knights. 
Your places being vacant at my side, 
This chance of noble deeds 

and go 
Unchallenged, while ye follow wan-. 

dering fires 





The Holy Grail. 



Lost in the quagmire ! Many of you, 
Return no more : ye think I show 
Too dark a prophet : come now, let 

The morrow morn once more in one 

full field 
Of gracious pastime, that once more 

the King, 
Before ye leave him for this Quest, 

may count 
The yet-unbroken strength of all his 

knights, 
Rejoicing in that Order which he 

made." 

' So w'hen the sun broke next from 

under ground. 
All the great table of our Arthur 

closed 
And clash'd in such a tournev and so 

full, 
So many lances broken — never yet 
Had Camelot seen the like, since 

Arthur came ; 
And I myself and Galahad, for a 

strength 
Was in us from the vision, overthrew 
So many knights that all the people 

cried. 
And almost burst the barriers in their 

heat, 
Shouting, " Sir Galahad and Sir Per- 



' But when the next day brake from 

under ground — 
O brother, had you known our Cam-. 

elot. 
Built by old kings, age after age, so 

old 
The King himself had fears that it 



So 






rich, 
roofs 



for 



Totter'd toward each other in the sky. 
Met foreheads all along the street of 

those 
Who watch'd us pass ; and lower, 

and where the long 
vich galleries, lady-laden, weigh'd the 

necks 





Of dragons clinging to the crazy walls. 
Thicker than drops from thunder, 

showers of flowers 
Fell as we past ; and men and boys 

astride 
On wyvern, lion, dragon, griffin, swan. 
At all the corners, named us each by 

name, 
Calling "God speed!" but in the 



belo 



The knights and ladies wept, and rich 

and poor 
Wept, and the King himself could 

hardly speak 
For grief, and all in middle street the 

Queen, 
Who rode by Lancelot, wail'd and 

shriek'd aloud, 
" This madness has come on us for 

our sins." 
So to the Gate of the three Queens 

we came. 
Where Arthur's wars are render'd 

mystically, 
And thence departed every one his 

' And I was lifted up in heart, and 
thought 
Of all my late-shown prowess in the 

How my strong lance had beaten 

down the knights. 
So many and famous names ; and 

never yet 
Had heaven appear'd so blue, nor 

earth so green. 
For all my blood danced in me, and I 

knew 
That I should light upon the Holy 

Grail. 



'Thereafter, the dark 


warning of 


our King, 




That most of us would fol 


ow wander- 


ing fires, 




Came like a driving gloon 


1 across my 



ind. 
Then every evil word I had spoken 

once. 
And every evil thought I had thought 

of old. 
And every evil deed I ever ( 





The Holy GraiL 



Awoke and cried, " This Quest is not 

for thee." 
And lifting up mine eyes, I found my- 



Alone, and in a land of sand and 

thorns. 
And I was thirsty even unto death ; 
And I, too, cried, " This Quest is not 

for thee." 

' And on I rode, and when I thought 
my thirst 

, and 

:risp- 



Would slay me, saw deep lawni 

then a brook, 
With one sharp rapid, where the 

ing white 
Play'd ever back upon the sloping 

And took both ear and eye ; and o'er 

the brook 
Were apple-trees, and apples by the 

brook 
Fallen, and on the lawns. " 1 will 

rest here," 



I said, "I am 


not 


worthy 


of the 


Quest;" 








But even while 


1 dr 


ank the 


brook. 


and ate 








The goodly appl 


es, al 


these things at 


once 








Fell into dust, ai 


d 1 \ 


as left alone. 


And thirstin", ii 


a In 


id of sand and 


thorns! 









' And then behold a woman at a 
door 
Spinning ; and fair the house whereby 

And kind the woman's eyes and inno- 
cent. 
And all her bearing gracious ; and she 

Opening her arms to meet me, as who 

should say, 
" Rest here ; " but when I touch 'd her, 

lo ! she, too. 
Fell into dust and nothing, and the 

house 
Became no better than a broken 

shed. 
And in it a dead babe ; and also 



Fell 



I dust, and I was left alone. 




' And on I rode, and greater was 

my thirst. 
Then flash'd a yellow gleam across 

the world, 
And where it smote the plowshare in 

the field, 
The plowman left his plowing, and 

fell down 
Before it ; where it glitter'd on her 

pail, 
The milkmaid left her milking, and 

fell down 
Before it, and I knew not why, but 

thought 
" The sun is rising, " tho' the sun had 

risen. 
Then was I ware of one that on me 

moved 
In golden armor with a crown of 

gold 
About a casque all jewels; and his 

horse 
In golden armor jewell'd everywhere : 
And on the splendor came, flashing 

me blind; 
And seem'd to me the Lord of all the 

world. 
Being so huge. But when I thought 

he meant 
To crush me, moving on me, lo ! he, 

too, 
Open'd his arms to embrace me as he 

And up I went and touch'd him, and 

he, too, 
Fell into dust, and I was left alone 
And wearying in a land of sand and 

thorns. 

' And I rode on and found a mighty 

hill. 
And on the top, a city wall'd: the 

spires 
Prick'd with incredible pinnacles into 

heaven. 
And by the gateway stirr'd a crowd ; 

and these 
Cried to me climbing, " Welcome, 

Percivale ! 
Thou mightiest and thou purest 

among men ! " 
And glad was I and clomb, but found 

at top 





The Holy Grail. 



No man, nor any voice. And thence 

I past 
Far thro' a ruinous city, and I saw 
That man had once dwelt there; but 

there I found 
Only one man of an exceeding age. 
" Where is that goodly company," 

said I, 
" That so cried out upon me ? " and 

he had 
Scarce any voice to answer, and yet 

gasp'd, 
" Whence and what art thou .' " and 

even as he spoke 
Fell into dust, and disappear'd, and 

Was left alone once more, and cried 

in grief, 
" Lo, if I find the Holy Grail itself 
And touch it, it will crumble into 

dust." 

' And thence I dropt into a lowly 

vale. 
Low as the hill was high, and where 

the vale 
Was lowest, found a chapel, and 

thereby 
A holy hermit in a hermitage. 
To whom I told my phantoms, and he 



'" O son, thou hast not true humil- 

The highest virtue, mother of them 

all; 
For when the Lord of all things made 

Himself 
Naked of glory for His mortal change, 
' Take thou my robe,' she said, ' for 

all is thine,' 
And all her form shone forth with 

sudden light 
So that the angels were amazed, and 

she 
FoUow'd Him down, and like a flying 



he gray-hair'd wisdom of the 



Uit her thou hast not known : 
what is this 

thoughtest of thy prowess 
thy sins .' 





Thou hast not lost thyself to save thy- 
self 

As Galahad." When the hermit 
made an end. 

In silver armor suddenly Galahad 
shone 

Before us, and against the chapel door 

Laid lance, and enter'd, and we knelt 
. in prayer. 

And there the hermit slaked my burn- 
ing thirst, 

And at the sacring of the mass I 
saw 

The holy elements alone ; but he, 

" Saw ye no more ? I, Galahad, saw 
the Grail, 

The Holy Grail, descend upon the 
shrine: 

I saw the fiery face as of a child 

That smote itself into the bread, and 
went; 

And hither am I come ; and never vet 

Hath what thy sister taught me fi'rst 
to see, 

This Holy Thing, fail'd from my side, 
nor come 

Cover'd, but moving with me night 
and day, 

Faint^ by day, but alwaj'S in the night 

Blood-red, and sliding down the 
blacken'd marsh 

Blood-red, and on the naked moun- 
tain top 

Blood-red, and in the sleeping mere 
below 

Blood-red. And in the strength of 
this I rode. 

Shattering all evil customs every- 
where. 

And past tliro' Pagan realms, and 
made them mine, 

And clash'd with Pagan hordes, and 
l)ore them down, 

And broke thro' all, and in the 
strength of this 

Come victor. But my time is hard at 
hand. 

And hence I go; and one will crown 

Far in the spiritual city; and come 

thou, too, 
For thou shall see the vision when I 

go-" 





The Holy Grail. 



' While thus he spake, his eye, 

dwe" 
Drew me, with power upon me, till 

grew 
One with him, to believe as he 

believed. 
Then, when the day began to wane, 



' There rose a hill that none but man 
could climb, 

Scarr'd with a hundred wintry water- 
courses — 

Storm at the top, and when we gain'd 

Round us and death ; for every 

moment glanced 
His silver arms and gloom'd : so quick 

and thick 
The lightnings here and there to left 



and 1 



jht 



Struck, till the dry old trunks about 

us, dead, 
Yea, rotten with a hundred years of 

death, 
Sprang into fire ; and at the base we 

found 
On either hand, as far as eye could 

see, < 

A great black swamp and of an evil 

smell. 
Part black, part whiten'd with the 

bones of men. 
Not to be crost, save that some 

ancient king 
Had built a way, where, link'd with 

many a bridge, 
A thousand piers ran into the great 

Sea. 
And Galahad fled along them bridge 

by bridge. 
And every bridge as quickly as he 

Sprang into fire and vanish'd, tho' I 

yearn'd 
To follow; and thrice above him all 

the heavens 
Open'd and blazed with thunder such 

as seem'd 
Shoutings of all the sons of God : 

and first 
once I saw him far on the great 

Sea, 



In silver-shining armor starry-clear ; 
And o'er his head the Holy Vessel 




e or a lumi- 
ftness ran the 
not whence it 



Clothed in white samii 

nous cloud. 
And with exceeding sw 

boat. 
If boat it were — I saw 

came. 
And when the heavens open'd and 

blazed again 
Roaring, I saw him like a silver star — 
And had he set the sail, or had the 

boat 
Become a living creature clad with 

wings .' 
And o'er his head the Holy Vessel 

hung 
Redder than any rose, a joy to me, 
For now I knew the veil had been 

withdrawn. 
Then in a moment when they blazed 

again 
Opening, I saw the least of little stars 
Down on the waste, and straight 

beyond the star 
I saw the spiritual city and all her 

spires 
And gateways in a glory like one 

pearl — 
No larger, tho' the goal of all the 

saints — 
Strike from the sea; and from the 

star there shot 
A rose-red sparkle to the city, and there 
Dwelt, and I knew it was the Holy 

Grail, 
Which never eyes on earth again shall 

see. 
Then fell the floods of heaven drown- 
ing the deep. 
And how my feet recrost the deathful 

ridge 
No memory in me lives ; but that I 

touch'd 
The chapel-doors at dawn I know ; 

and thence 
Taking my war-horse from the holy 

man. 
Glad that no phantom vext me more, 

return'd 
To whence I 














/<m 1 1 ^ ? \ 1 rr 


2i 






The Holy Grail. 299 


' brother,' ask'd Ambrosius,— ' for 


How far I falter'd from my quest and 




■ ■ in sooth 


vow ? 


. 






These ancient books— and they would 


For after I had lain so many nights. 








tAfl win thee— teem, 


A bedmate of the snail and eft and «^ 






Only I find not there this Holv Grail, 


snake, 






With miracles and marvels 'like to 


In grass and burdock, I was changed 






these, 








Not all unlike; which oftentime I 


And meagre, and the vision had not 






read. 


come ; 






Who read but on my breviary with 
ease, 


And then I chanced upon a goodly 
town 






Till my head swims; and then go 


With one great dwelling in the mid- 






forth and pass 


dle of it; 






Down to the little thorpe that lies so 


Thither I made, and there was I dis- 






close. 


armed 






And almost plaster'd like a martin's 
nest 


By maidens each as fair as any flower : 
IJut when they led me into hall. 






To these old walls— and mingle with 


behold. 






our folk; 


The Princess of that castle was the 






And knowing every honest face of 


one. 






theirs 


Brother, and that one only, who had 






As well as ever shepherd knew his 


ever 






sheep, 


Made my heart leap; for when I 






And every homely secret in their 


moved of old 






hearts. 


A slender page about her father's 






Delight myself with gossip and old 


hall. 






wives. 


And she a slender maiden, all mv 






And ills and aches, and teethings, 


heart 






lyings-in. 
And mirthful sayings, children of the 


Went after her with longing : yet we 






twain 






place. 


Had never kiss'd a kiss, or vow'd a 






That have no meaning half a league 


vow. 






away : 


And now I came upon her, once 






Or lulling random squabbles when 


again, 






they rise. 


And one had wedded her, and he was 






Chafferings and chatterings at the 


dead, 






market-cross. 


And all his land and wealth and state 






Rejoice, small man, in this small 


were hers. 






world of mine, 


And while I tarried, every day she 






Yea, even in their hens and in their 


set 






eggs— 


A banquet richer than the day be- 






O brother, saving this Sir Galahad, 


fore 






Came ye on none but phantoms in 


By me ; for all her longing and her 






your quest, 


will 






No man, no woman ? ' 


Was toward me as of old; till one 
fair morn, 






,_ Then Sir Percivale : 


I walking to and fro beside a stream 






'^ * ' All men, to one so bound bv such a 


That flash'd across her orchard '^ 








L vow. 


underneath 








And women were as phantoms. O, 


Her castle-walls, she stole upon my 








mv brother. 


walk. 








Whv wilt thou shame me to confess 


And calling me the greatest of all 






1 


■ to thee 


knights. 






MJLJ^ 1^ I 1 1 LiJV 














The Holy Grail. 



Embraced me, and 

first time, 
And gave herself and all 



kiss'd me the 

her wealth 

ber'd Arthur's warning 

Id follow wander- 

my heart. 



Then 

word, 
That most of us 

ing fires, 
And the Quest faded 

Anon, 
The heads of all her people drew to 

me, 
With supplication both of knees and 

tongue : 
" We have heard of thee : thou art 

our greatest knight, 
Our lady says it, and we well believe : 
Wed thou our Lady, and rule over us, 
And thou shalt be as Arthur in our 

land." 
O me, my brother I but one night my 

vow 
Burnt me within, so that I rose and 

fled. 
But wail'd and wept, and hated mine 

own self, 
And ev'n the Holy Quest, and all but 

Then after I ■ 



joni ( 



'ith Galahad 



Then said the monk, 'Poor men, 
when yule is cold, 
Must be content to sit by little fires. 
And this am I, so that ye care for 

Ever so little ; yea, and blest be 

Heaven 
That brought thee here to this poor 

house of ours 
Where all the brethren are so hard, 

to warm 
My cold heart with a friend : but O 

the pity 
To find thine own first love once 

more — to hold. 
Hold her a wealthy bride within thine 

arms. 
Or all but hold, and then— cast her 

aside. 
Foregoing all her sweetness, like a 

weed. 





For we that 

double life. 
We that are plagued with dreams of 

something sweet 
Beyond all sweetness in a life so 

rich, — 
Ah, blessed Lord, I speak too earthly- 
Seeing I never stray'd beyond the 

cell. 
But live like an old badger in his 

earth. 
With earth about him everywhere, 

despite 
All fast and penance. Saw ye none 

beside. 
None of your knights i" ' 

' Yea so,' said Percivale : 
' One night my pathway swerving 

east, I saw 
The pelican on the casque of our Sir 

Bors 
All in the middle of the rising moon : 
And toward him spurr'd, and hail'd 

him, and he me. 
And each made joy of either ; then 

he ask'd, 
" Where is he .> hast thou seen him — 

Lancelot .' — Once," 
Said good Sir Bors, " he dash'd across 

me — mad. 
And maddening what he rode : and 

when I cried, 
' Ridest thou then so hotly on a 

quest 
So holy,' Lancelot shouted, ' Stay me 

not I 
I have been the sluggard, and I ride 

apace. 
For now there is a lion in the way.' 
So vanish'd." 

' Then Sir Bors had ridden on 
Softly, and sorrowing for our Lance- 
lot, 
Because his former madness, once the 

talk 
And scandal of our table, had re- 



For Lancelot's kith and kin 

ship him 
That ill to him is ill to them; to BorS' 





The Holy Grail. 



lieyond the rest : he well had been 

content 
Not tu have seen, so Lancelot might 

have seen, 
The Holy Cup of healing; and, in- 

lieing so clouded with his grief and 

lover, 
Small heart was his after the Holy 

Quest : 
If God would send the vision, well : if 

not, 

the hands 



Rode 
And 



then, with small adventure 
et, Sir Bors 
) the lonest tract of all the 



realn 



people there among 

tlieir crags. 
Our race and blood, a remnant that 

were left 
Paynim amid their circles, and the 

stones 
They pitch up straight to heaven : and 

their wise men 
Were strong in that old magic which 

can trace 
The wandering of the stars, and 

scoff'd at him 
And this high Quest as at a simple 

thing : 
Told him he follow'd — almost Arthur's 

words — 
A mocking fire: "what other fire 

than he. 
Whereby the blood beats, and the 

blossom blows, 
And the sea rolls, and all the world is 

And when his answer chafed them, 

the rough crowd. 
Hearing he had a difference with their 

priests. 
Seized him, and bound and plunged 

him into a cell 
Of great piled stones ; and lying 

bounden there 
In darkness thro' innumerable hours 
He heard the hollow-ringing heavens 

eep 
Over him till by miracle — what else ? — 





Heavy as it was, a great stone slipt 

and fell, 
Such as no wind could move : and 

thro* the gap 
Glimmer'd the streaming scud : then 

came a night 
Still as the day was loud ; and thro' 

the gap 
The seven clear stars of Arthur's 

Table Round— 
For, brother, so one night, because 

they roll 
Thro' such a round in heaven, we 

named the stars. 
Rejoicing in ourselves and in our 

King- 
And these, like bright eyes of familiar 

friends, 
In on him shone : " And then to me, 

to me," 
Said good Sir Bors, " beyond all hopes 

of mine. 
Who scarce had pray'd or ask'd it for 

myself— 
Across the seven clear stars— O grace 

to me — 
In color like the fingers of a hand 
Before a burning taper, the sweet Grail 
Glided and past, and close upon it 

peal'd 
A sharp quick thunder." Afterwards, 

a maid. 
Who kept our holy faith among her 

In secret, entering, loosed and let him 



To whom the monk : ' And I re- 
member now 

That pelican on the casque : Sir Bors 
it was 

Who spake so low and sadly at our 
board ; 

And mighty reverent at our grace was 



A square-set man and honest; and his 

eyes. 
An out-door sign of all the warmth 

within. 
Smiled with his lips— a smile beneath 

a cloud. 
But heaven had meant it for a sunny 

one : 





The Holy Grail. 



Ay, ay, Sir Bors, who else ? But 
when ye reach'd 

The city, found ye all your knights re- 
turn'd, 

Or was there sooth in Arthur's proph- 
ecy, 

Tell me, and what said each, and what 
the King ? ' 

Then answer'd Percivale : ' And 

that can I, 
Brother, and truly; since the living 

words 
Of so great men as Lancelot and our 

King 
Pass not from door to door and out 

again. 
But sit within the house. O, when we 

reach'd 
The city, our horses stumbling as they 

trode 
On heaps of ruin, hornless unicorns, 
Crack'd basilisks, and splinter'd cocka- 
trices, 
And shatter'd talbots, which had left 

the stones 
Raw, that they fell from, brought us 

to the hall. 

' And there sat Arthur on the dais- 
throne. 

And those that had gone out upon the 
Quest, 

Wasted and worn, and but a tithe of 
them. 

And those that had not, stood before 
the King, 

Who, when he'saw me, rose, and bad 
me hail. 

Saying, " A welfare in thine eye re- 
proves 

Our fear of some disastrous chance for 
thee 

On hill, or plain, at sea, or flooding 
ford. 

So fierce a gale made havoc here of 
late 

Among the strange devices of our 
kings ; 

Yea, shook this newer, stronger hall of 
ours. 

And from the statue Merlin moulded 
for us 





Half-wrench'd a golden wing ; but 
now— the Quest, 

This vision — hast thou seen the Holy 
Cup, 

That Joseph brought of old to Glas- 
tonbury .' " 

' So when I told him all thyself hast 
heard, 

Ambrosius, and my fresh but fixt re- 
solve 

To pass away into the quiet life. 

He answer'd not, but, sharply turning, 
ask'd 

Of Gawain, " Gawain, was this Quest 
for thee .' " 

' " Nay, lord," said Gawain, " not 

for such as I. 
Therefore I communed with a saintly 

man. 
Who made me sure the Quest was not 

for me ; 
For I was much awearied of the Quest : 
But found a silk pavilion in a field, 
And merry maidens in it; and then 

this gale 
Tore my pavilion from the tenting-pin. 
And blew my merry maidens all 

about 
With all discomfort ; yea, and but for 

this, 
My twelvemonth and a day were 

pleasant to me." 

' He ceased ; and Arthur turn'd to 

whom at first 
He saw not, for Sir Bors, on entering, 

push'd 
Athwart the throng to Lancelot, 

caught his hand, 
Held it, and there, half-hidden by 

him, stood, 
Until the King espied him, saying to 

him, 
" Hail, Bors ! if ever loyal man and 

true 
Could see it, thou hast seen the 

Grail ; " and Bors, 
" Ask me not, for I may not speak of 



and 





The Holy Grail. 



' Then there 
lot, for the 
Spake but of sundry perils in the 

of Cana in Holy 

Our Arthur kept his best until the last ; 
" Thou, too, my Lancelot," ask'd the 

King, " my friend, 
Our mightiest, hath this Quest avail'd 

for thee ? " 

' " Our mightiest ! " answer'd Lance- 
lot, with a groan ; 
"O King!" — and when he paused, 

me thought I spied 
A dying fire of madness in his eyes — 
" O'King, my friend, if friend of thine 

Happier are those that welter in their 

sin. 
Swine in the mud, that cannot see for 

slime. 
Slime of the ditch : but in me lived a 

sin 
So strange, of such a kind, that all of 

pure. 
Noble, and knightly in me twined 

and clung 
Round that one sin, until the whole- 
some flower 
And poisonous grew together, each 

as each. 
Not to be pluck'd asunder ; and when 

thy knights 
Sware, I sware with them only in the 

hope 
That could I touch or see the Holy 

Grail 
They might be pluck'd asunder. 

Then I spake 
To one most holy saint, who wept 

and said, 
That save they could be pluck'd 

asunder, all 
My quest were but in vain ; to whom 



And forth 

and strove 
To tear the twain 




ork according as he 
t, and while I yearn'd 
der in my 




My madness came upon me as of old. 
And whipt me into waste fields far 

There was I beaten down by little 

Mean knights, to whom the moving of 

my sword 
And shadow of my spear had been 

To scare them from me once ; and 

then I came 
All in my folly to the naked shore, 
Wide flats, where nothing but coarse 

grasses grew; 
But such a blast, my King, began to 

blow, 
So loud a blast along the shore and 

sea. 
Ye could not hear the waters for the 

blast, 
Tho' hea|)t in mounds and ridges all 

the sea 
Drove like a cataract, and all the 

sand 
Swept like a river, and the clouded 

heavens 
Were shaken with the motion and the 

sound. 
And blackening in the sea-foam 

sway'd a boat, 
Half-swallow'd in it, anchor'd with a 

chain ; 
And in my madness to myself I said, 
' I will embark and I will lose myself, 
And in the great sea wash away my 

I burst tlie chain, I sprang into the 

Seven days I drove along the dreary 

And witli me drove the moon and all 

And the wind fell, and on the seventh 

night 
I heard the shingle grinding in the 

surge. 
And felt the boat shock earth, and 

looking up. 
Behold, the enchanted towers of Car- 

bonek, 
A castle like a rock upon ; 
With chasm-like portals open 

sea. 





The Holy Grail. 



iker 1 



And steps that met the br 

there 
Stood near it but a lion on each side 
That kept the entrv, and the moon 

was full. 
Then from the boat I leapt, and up 

the stairs. 
There drew niy sword. With sud- 
den-flaring manes 
Those two great beasts rose upright 

like a man, 
Each gript a shoulder, and I stood be- 
tween ; 
And, when I would have smitten 

them, heard a voice, 
' Doubt not, go forward ; if thou 

doubt, the beasts 
Will tear thee piecemeal.' Then with 

violence 
The sword was dash'd from out my 

hand, and fell. 
And up iuto the sounding hall I past ; 
But nothing in the sounding hall I 

saw, 
No bench nor table, painting on the 

wall 
Or shield of knight ; only the rounded 

moon 
Thro' the tall oriel on the rolling sea. 
But always in the quiet house I heard, 
Clear as a lark, high o'er me as a 

lark, 
A sweet voice singing in the topmost 

tower 
To the eastward : up I climb'd a 

thousand steps 
With paiu : as in a dream I seem'd to 

climb 
For ever : at the last I reach'd a 

door, 
A light was in the crannies, and I 

heard, 
' Glory and joy and honor to our 

Lord 
And to the Holy Vessel of the Grail.' 
Then in my madness I essay'd the 

door; 
gave ; and thro' a stormy glare, a 

heat 
As from a seveutimes-heated furnace, 




d burnt, and blinded 




With such a fierceness that 

away — 
O, yet methought I saw the Holy Grail, 
All pall'd in crimson samite, and 

around 
Great angels, awful shapes, and wings 

and eyes. 
And but for all my madness and my 

sin, 
And then my swooning, I had sworn 

I saw 
That which I saw ; but what I saw 

was veil'd 
And cover'd ; and this Quest was not 

for me." 

' So speaking, and here ceasing, 

Lancelot left 
The hall long silent, till Sir Gavvain — 

nay, 
Brother, I need not tell thee foolish 

words,— 
A reckless and irreverent knight was 

he. 
Now bolden'd by the silence of his 

King,— 
Well, I will tell thee : " O King, my 

liege," he said, 
" Hath Gawain fail'd in any quest of 

thine .? 
When have I stinted stroke in 

foughten field .' 
But as for thine, my good friend Per- 

civale. 
Thy holy nun and thou have driven 

men mad. 
Yea, made our mightiest madder than 

our least. 
But by mine eyes and by mine ears I 

swear, 
I will be deafer than the blue-eyed 

cat, 
And thrice as blind as any noonday 

owl, 
To holy virgins in their ecstasies. 
Henceforward." 



' " Deafer," said the 
King, 
' Gawain, and blinder 





Pelkas and Ettarre. 



1 blind to have desire to see. 
But if indeed there came a sign from 

heaven, 
lilessed are Bors, Lancelot and Per- 

civale, 
For these have seen according to their 

sight. 
For every fiery prophet in old times, 
And all the sacred madness of the 

bard, 
When God made music thro' them, 

could but speak 
His music by the framework and the 

chord ; 
And as ye saw it ye have spoken 

truth. 

' " Nay — but thou errest, Lancelot : 

never yet 
Could all of true and noble in knight 

and man 
Twine round one sin, whatever it 

might be. 
With such a closeness, but apart 

there grew. 
Save that he were the swine thou 

spakest of, 
Some root of knighthood and pure 

nobleness ; 
Whereto see thou; that it may bear 



'"And spake I not too 
knights .' 
Was I too dark a prophet when I 



uly, O my 

t when \ 

upon the Hob 



To those who 
Quest, 

That most of them would follow wan- 
dering fires, 

Lost in the quagmire? — lost to me 
and gone. 

And left me gazing at a barren board, 

And a lean Order — scarce return'd a 
tithe— 

And out of those to whom the vision 
came 

My greatest hardly will believe he 
saw ,• 

Another hath beheld it af.ar off. 

And leaving human wrongs to right 



the silent life. 





face to 



And one hath had the ' 
face, 

And now his chair desires him here in 
vain. 

However they may crown him other- 
where. 

' " And some among you held, that 
if the King 
Had seen the sight he would have 



easily, seeing that the King must 
les, and is but as the 



That which he i 

hind 
To whom a space of land is given to 

plow. 
Who mav not wander from the allot- 
ted field 
Before his work be done ; but, being 

done. 
Let visions of the night or of the day 
Come, as they will ; and many a time 

they come. 
Until this earth he walks on seems 

not earth. 
This light that strikes his eyeball is 

not light. 
This air that smites his forehead is 

not air 
But vision — yea, his very hand and 

foot — ' 
In moments when he feels he cannot 

die, 
And knows himself no vision to him- 
self. 
Nor the high God a vision, nor that 

One 
Who rose again : ye have seen what 

ye have seen." 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 

King Arthur made new knights i 

fill the gap 
Leftbv the Holy Quest; and as he 
In hall at old Caerleon, the h 

doors 





Pelleas, and the 

fields 
Past, and the sunshine came along with 

him. 

' Make me thy knight, because I 

know, Sir King, 
All that belongs to knighthood, and I 

love.' 
Such waji his cry : for having heard 

the King 
Had let proclaim a tournament — the 

prize 
A golden circlet and a knightly 

sword. 
Full fain had Pelleas for his lady won 
The golden circlet, for himself the 

And there were those who knew him 

near the King, 
And promised for him : and Arthur 

made him knight. 

And this new knight, Sir Pelleas of 

the isles — 
l!ut lately come to his inheritance. 
And lord of many a barren isle was 

he — 
Riding at noon, a day or twain before. 
Across the forest call'd of Dean, to 

find 
Caerleon and the King, had felt the 

Beat like a strong knight on his helm, 

and reel'd 
Almost to falling from his horse ; but 



Near ]ii.n a mound of 
Whereon a hundred sta 



:ven-slopnig 
ilv beeches 



And here and there great hollies 

under them ; 
But for a mile all round was open 

space. 
And fern and heath : and slowly 

Pelleas drew 
To that dim day, then binding his 

good horse 
To a tree, cast himself down ; and as 




At random looking over the brown 

earth 
Thro' that green-glooming twilight of 

the grove, 
It seem'd to Pelleas that the fern 

without 
Burnt as a living fire of emeralds. 
So that his eyes were dazzled looking 

at it. 
Then o'er it crost the dimness of a 

cloud 
Floating, and once the shadow of a 

bird 
Flying, and then a fawn; and his eyes 

And since he loved all maidens, but 



In special, 
'Whe 

O where.' 

theei 

For fair th 


lalf-av 


vake 


he whisper'd. 


I love 
u art 


thee, tho 
and pure 


' I know 


And I will 

ands 
As famous- 


iiake thee 

vord 

-O my Qi 


with 
een. 


my si>ear 
my Guin- 


evere. 
For I will be thine Ar 
meet.' 


thur 


when we 



Suddenly waken'd with a sound of 
talk 
And laughter at the limit of the wood. 
And glancing thro' the hoary boles. 

Strange as to some old profihet might 

have seem'd 
A vision hovering on a sea of fire, 
Damsels in divers colors like the 

cloud 
Of sunset and sunrise, and all of them 
On horses, and the horses richly trapt 
Breast-high in that bright line of 

bracken stood : 
And all the damsels talk'd confu- 
sedly. 
And one was pointing this way, and 

one that. 
Because the way was 1 



And Pelleas rose. 
And loosed his horse, and led him to 
the light. 





Pclleas and Etiarre. 



that seem'd the chief 
ng them said, 
' In happy time behold our pilot-star ! 
Youth, we are damsels-errant, and we 

ride, 
Arm'd as ye see, to tilt against the 

knights 
There at Caerleon, but have lost our 

To right? to left? straight forward? 

back again ? 
Which? tell us quickly.' 

Pelleas gazing thought, 
' Is Guinevere herself so beautiful ? ' 
For large her violet eyes look'd, and 

her bloom 
A rosy dawn kindled in stainless 

heavens, 
And round her limbs, mature in 

womanhood ; 
And slender was her hand and small 

her shape ; 
And but for those large eves, the 

haunts of scorn. 
She might have seem'd a toy to trifle 

with. 
And pass and care no more. But 

while he gazed 
The beauty of her flesh abash'd the 

boy, 
As tho" it were the beauty of her soul : 
For as the base man, judging of the 

good. 
Puts his own baseness in him by 

default 
Of will and nature, so did Pelleas lend 
All the young beauty of his own soul 



Believing he 



vhen she spake to 
d not make her a 



Stamnier'd, and coul 

reply. 
For out of the waste islands had he 

come. 
Where saving his own sisters he had 

known 
Scarce any but the women of his 

that laugh'd and 
against the gulls, 
Makers of nets, and living from the 





Then with a slow smile tu 

lady round 
And look'd upon her people ; and as 

when 
-A stone is flung into some sleeping 

The circle widens till it lip the 

marge, 
Spread the slow smile thro' all her 

company. 
Three knights were thereamong ; and 

they too smiled, 
Scorning him ; for the lady was 

Ettarre, 
And she was a great lady in her land. 

Again she said, ' O wild and of the 

woods, 
Knowest thou not the fashion of our 

speech ? 
Or have the Heavens but given thee a 

fair face, 
Lacking a tongue?' 

' O damsel,' answer'd he, 
' I woke from dreams ; and coming 

out of gloom 
Was dazzled by the sudden light, 

and crave . 
Pardon : but will ye to Caerleon ? I 
Go likewise : shall I lead you to the 

King ? ' 

' Lead then,' she said ; and thro' 

the woods they went. 
And while they rode, the meaning in 

his eyes. 
His tenderness of manner, and chaste 

awe, 
His broken utterances and bashful- 

ness, 
Were all a burthen to her, and in her 

heart 
She mutter'd, ' I have lighted on a 



fool 



iince he 



Raw, yet so stale!' 
mind was bent 
On hearing, after trumpet blown, he 



And title, 'Queen of 

lists 
Cried — and beholding hi 

she thought 





Pelleas and Ettari 



That 


pe 


radvei 


turc 


he will fight 


for 


Andv 


in tlie ci 


clet 


therefore flaiter'd 


Being 


so 


grac 


ous, 


that 


he well 


>igh 



, great lady. 



deem'd 
His wish by hers was echo'd ; and her 

knights 
And all her damsels too were gracious 

For she ' 



And when they reach'd 
Caerleon, ere they past to lodging, 

she, 
Taking his hand, ' O the strong hand,' 

"she said, 
' See ! look at mine ! but wilt thou 

fight for me. 
And win me this fine circlet, Pel- 



That I may lo 



thee 



Then his helpless heart 
Leapt, and he cried, 'Ay! wilt thou if 

I win?' 
'Ay, that will I,' she answer'd, and 

she laugh'd, 
And straitly nipt the hand, and flung 

Then glanced askew at those three 

knights of hers, 
Till all her ladies laugh'd along with 

her. 

' O happy world,' thought Pelleas, 

'all, meseems. 
Are happy; I the happiest of them 

all.' 
Nor slept that night for pleasure in his 

And green wood- ways, and eyes among 

the leaves ; 
Then being on the morrow knighted, 

To love one only. And as he came 

away, 
The men who met him rounded on 

their heels 
And wonder'd after him, because his 

face 
Shone like the countenance of a priest 

of old 





Against the flame about a sacrifice 
Kindled by fire from heaven : so glad 
was he. 

Then Arthur made vast banquets, 

and strange knights 
From the four winds came in: and 

each one sat, 
Tho' served with choice from air, 

land, stream, and sea, 
Oft in mid-banquet measuring with his 

eyes 
His neighbor's make and might : and 

Pelleas look'd 
Noble among the noble, for he 



His lady loved hii 



d he knew him- 
id him his new- 
hisper 



Loved of the King 

made knight 
Worshipt, whose lightest 

moved him more 
Than all the ranged reasons of the 

world. 

Then blush'd and brake the morn- 
ing of the jousts, 
And this was call'd ' The Tournament 

of Youth : ' 
For Arthur, loving his young knight, 

withheld 
His older and his mightier from the 

lists, 
That Pelleas might obtain his lady's 

love, 
According to her promise, and re- 
main 
Lord of the tourney. And Arthur had 

the jousts 
Down in the fiat field by the shore of 

Usk 
Holden : the gilded parapets were 

crown'd 
With faces, and the great tower fill'd 

with eyes 
Up to the summit, and the trumpets 

blew. 
There all day long Sir Pelleas kept the 

field 
With honor : so by that strong hand 

of his 
The sword and golden circlet were 

achieved. 





Pelleas and Ettarre. 



Then rang the shout his lady loved : 

the heat 
Of pride and glory fired her face ; her 

eye 
Sparkled ; she caught the circlet from 

his lance, 
And there before the people crown'd 

herself; 
So for the last time she was gracious 

to him. 

Then at Caerleon for a space — her 

look 
Bright for all others, cloudier on her 

knight — 
Linger'd Ettarre : and seeing Pelleas 

droop. 
Said Guinevere, ' We marvel at thee 

much, 
O damsel, wearing this unsunny face 
To him who won thee glory ! ' And 

she said, 
* Had ye not held your Lancelot in 



My Queen, he had not won.' 


Where- 


at the Queen, 




As one whose foot is bitt« 


n by an 



Glanced down upon her, turn'd and 
went her way. 

But after, when her damsels, and 

herself. 
And those three knights all set their 

faces home, 
Sir Pelleas follow'd. She that saw 

him cried, 
' Damsels— and yet I should be 

shamed to say it — 
I cannot bide Sir P.aby. Keep him 

back 
Among yourselves. Would rather 

that we had 
Some rough old knight who knew the 

worldly way. 
Albeit grizzlier than a bear, to ride 
And jest with : take him to you, keep 

him off. 
And pamper him with papmeat, if ye 



Old milky fables of the wolf and sheep, 
Such as the wholesome mothers tell 
their boys. 




Nay, should ye try him with a merry 
To find his mettle, good : and if he fly 




Smai; 



This 



matter I let hmi.' 

damsels heard, 
And mindful of her small and cruel 

hand. 
They, closing round him thro' the 

journey home, 
Acted her hest, and always from her 

side 
Restrain'd him with all manner of de- 
vice. 
So that he could not come to speech 

with her. 
And when she gain'd her castle, 

upsprang the bridge, 
Down rang the grate of iron thro' the 

groove. 
And he was left alone in open field. 



' These be the ways of ladies,' 

Pelleas thought, 
' To those who love them, trials of our 

faith. 
Yea, let her prove me to the utter- 

For loyal to the uttermost am I.' 

So made his moan ; and, darkness 

falling, sought 
A priory not far off, there lodged, but 

With morning every day, and, moist or 

dry, 
Jull-arm'd upon his charger all day 

Sat by the walls, and no one open'd to 



And this persistence turn'd her 

scorn to wrath. 
Then calling her three knights, she 

charged them, ' Out ! 
And drive him from the walls.' And 

out they came. 
But Pelleas overthrew them as thev 

dash'd 
Against him one by one ; and these 

return'd. 
But still he kept his watch beneath 

the wall. 










A^ 1 13 


■i Ettarre. 


\ 


T 


K 

310 Pelleas an 


Thereon her wrath became a hate ; 


But when she mock'd his vows and 




■ ■ and once, 


the great King, 








A week bevoiul, while walking on the 


Lighted on words : ' For pity of thine 


f 






cAfl walls 


own self, "" 






With her three knights, she pointed 


Peace, l.adv, i^eace : is he not thine 






downward, ' Look, 


and mine ? ' 






He haunts me— I cannot breathe— 


'Thou fool,' she said, 'I never heard 






besieges me; 


his voice 






Down! strike him! put my hate into 


But long'd to break away. Unbind 






your strokes, 


him now 






And drive him from my walls.' And 


And thrust him out of doors; for save 






down they went. 


he be 






And Pelleas overthrew them one by 


Fool to the midmost marrow of his 






one; 


bones. 






And from the tower, above him cried 


He will return no more.' And those, 






Ettarre, 


her three. 






' Bind him and bring him in.' 


Laugh'd, and unbound, and thrust him 
from the gate. 






He heard her voice ; 








Then let the strong hand, which had 


..\nd after this, a week beyond, 






overthrown 


again 






Her minion-knights, by those he over- 


She call'd them, saying, 'There he 






threw 


watches yet. 






Be bounden straight, and so they 


There like a dog before his master's 






brought him in. 


door ! 
Kick'd, he returns : do ye not hate 






Then when he came before Ettarre, 


him, ye ? 






the sight 


Ye know yourselves : how can ye bide 






Of her rich beauty made him at one 


at peace. 






glance 


Affronted with his fulsome innocence ? 






More bondsm.in in his heart than in 


Are ye but creatures of the board and 






his bonds. 


bed. 






Yet with good cheer he spake. 


No men to strike ? Fall on him all at 






' Behold me. Lady, 


once. 






A prisoner, and the vassal of thy will ; 


And if ye slay him I reck not : if ye 






And if thou keep me in thy donjon 


fail, 






here. 


Give ye the slave mine order to be 






Content am I so that I see thy face 


bound. 






But once a day : for I have sworn my 


Bind him as heretofore, and bring 
It may be ye shall slay him in his 






vows. 
And thou hast given thy promise, and 






I know 


bonds.' 






That all these pains are trials of my 








faith. 


She spake; and at her will they 






And that thyself, when thou hast seen 


couch'd their spears. 






me strain'd 


Three against one : and Gawain pass- 






And sifted to the utmost, wilt at length 


ing by, ev. 






*]P Yield me thy love and know me for 


Bound upon solitary adventure, saw- 








thy knight.' 


Low down beneath the shadow of those . ,. 








Then she began to rail so bitterly. 


A villainv, three to one : and thro' his 








With all her damsels, he was stricken 


heart 






1 
^ 


^-^. 


The fire of honor and all noble deeds 




.... - ■ 1 




Pelleas and Ettarre. 



Flash'd, and he call'd, ' I strike upon 

thy side— 
The caitiffs!' 'Nay,' said Pelleas, 

'but forbear ; 
He needs no aid who doth his lady's 

So Gawain, looking at the villainy 

done, 
Forbore, but in his heat and eagerness 
Trembled and quiver'd, as the dog, 

withheld 
A moment from the vermin that he 

Before him, shivers, ere he springs and 



And Pelleas overthrew them, one to 

three; 
And they rose up, and bound, and 

brought him in. 
Then first her anger, leaving Pelleas, 

burn'd 
Full on her knights in niany an evil 

name 
Of craven, weakling, and thrice-beaten 

hound : 
' Vet, take him, ye that scarce are fit 

to touch. 
Far less to bind, your victor, and 

thrust him out. 
And let who will release him from his 

bonds. 
And if he comes again' — there she 

brake short ; 
And Pelleas answer'd, ' Ladv, for 

indeed 
I loved you and I deem'd you beauti- 



I cannot brook 

marr'd 
Thro' evil spite 


to see 
and if 


your beau 
ye love n 


I cannot bear to 


dream 


you so fo 


I had liefer ye 


were w 


orthy of n 



Than to be loved again of you — fare- 
well ; 
And tho' ye kill my hope, not yet my 





she gazed 



While thus he spake, 

upon the man 
Of princely bearing, tho' in bonds, 

and thought, 
' Why have I push'd him from me .' 

this man loves, 
If love there be : yet him I loved not. 

Why,? 
I deem'd him fool? yea, so.' or that 

in him 
A something — was it nobler than my- 
self?— 
Seem'd mv reproach ? He is not of 

my kind 
He could not love me, did he know 

me well. 
Nay, let him go — and quickly.' And 

her knights 
Laugh'd not, but thrust him bounden 

out of door. 

Forth sprang Gawain, and loosed 

him from his bonds. 
And flung them o'er the walls ; and 

afterward. 
Shaking his hands, as from a lazar's 

rag, 
' Faith of my body,' he said, ' and art 

thou not — 
Yea ihou art he, whom late our Arthur 

made 
Knight of his table ; yea and he that 

won 
The circlet? wherefore hast thou so 

defamed 
Thy brotherhood in me and all the 

rest. 
As let these caitiffs on thee work their 

will?' 

And Pelleas answer'd, ' O, their 
wills are hers 

For whom I won the circlet ; and 
mine, hers. 

Thus to be bounden, so to see her face, 

Marr'd tho' it be with spite and mock- 
ery now. 

Other than when I found her in the 
woods ; 

And tho' she hath me bounden but in 
spite. 

And all to flout me, when they bring 





Pdlcas and Ettarre. 



Let me be bounden, I shall see her 

face ; 
Else must I die thro' mine unhappi- 



And Gawain answer 'd kindly tho' in 

scorn, 
' Why, let my lady bind me if she 

will, 
And let my lady beat me if she 

But an she send her delegate to thrall 
Tliese fighting hands of mine — Christ 

kill me then 
But I will slice him handless by the 

And let my lady sear the stump for 

him, 
Howl as he may. But hold me for 

your friend : 
Come, ye know nothing : here I pledge 

my troth, 
Yea, by the honor of the Table 

Round, 
I will be leal to thee and work thy 

work. 
And tame thy jailing princess to thine 

hand. 
Lend me thine horse and arms, and I 

will sav 
That I have slain thee. She will let 

To hear the manner of thv fight and 

fall ; 
Then, when I come within her 

counsels, then 
From prime to vespers will I chant 

thy praise 
As prowest knight and truest lover, 

more 
Than any have sung thee living, till 

she long 
To have thee back in lusty life again. 
Nut to be bound, save by white bonds 

and warm, , 

IJearer than freedom. Wherefore 

now thy horse 
And armor :' let me go : be com- 



ted: 



Give me three days to melt her fancy, 

and hope 
The third night hence will bring thee 




Then Pelleas 


lent 


his horse 


and all 


his arms. 










Saving the goodly 


word, 


hi. 


prize. 


and took 










Gawain's, a.id 


aid. 


Kefra 




le not, 


but help- 


- 








Art thou not he 




ca 1 light- 


of-love ? ' 











' Ay,' said Gawain, ' for women be so 
light.' 

Then bounded forward to the castle 
walls. 

And raised a bugle hanging from his 
neck. 

And winded it, and that so music- 
ally 

That all the old echoes hidden in the 
wall 

Rang out like hollow woods at hunt- 
ing-tide. 

Up ran a score of damsels to the 
tower ; 
' Avaunt,' they cried, ' our lady loves 

thee not.' 
But Gawain lifting up his vizor said, 
'Gawain am L Gawain of Arthur's 

And I have slain this Pelleas whom 

ye h.ite : 
Behold his horse and armor. Open 

gates, 
And I will make you merry.' 

And down they ran. 
Her damsels, crying to their ' ladv, 

'Lo! 
Pelleas is dead — he told us— he that 

hath 
His horse and armor : will ve let him 



He slew him! Ga 

the court. 
Sir Gawain— there h 



him nay.' 

And so, leave gii 
open door 
Rode Gawain, \ 
courteously. 



in, Gawain of 





Fclkas and Etfan 



•Dead, is it so?' she ask'd. 'Ay, 

ay,' said he, 
' And oft in dying cried upon your 

name.' 
' Pitv on him,' she answer'd, 'a good 

knight, 
But never let me bide one hour at 

peace.' 
' Ay,' thought Gawain, ' and you be 

fair enow : 
Kut I to your dead man have given 

my 'troth. 
That whom ye loathe, him will I 

make you love.' 



So those three days, aimless about 
the land, 
Lost in a doubt, Pelleas wandering 
Waited, until the third night brought 

With promise of large light on woods 

Hot was the night and silent ; but a 

sound 
Of Gawain ever coming, and this 

lay— 
Which Pelleas had heard sung before 

the Queen, 
And seen her sadden listening — vext 

his heart, 
And marr'd his rest — ' A worm within 

the rose.' 

' A rose, but one, none other rose 
had I, 

A rose, one rose, and this was won- 
drous fair. 

One rose, a rose that gladden'd earth 
and sky. 

One rose, my rose, that sweeten'd all 
mine air — 

I cared not for the thorns ; the thorns 
were there. 



' One rose, a rose to gather by a 
by. 
One rose, a rose, to gather and 




rose 
: will 




He dies who lo 
there.' 

This tender rhy 

doubt, 
' Why lingers Gawain with his golden 

news .' ' 
So shook him that he could not rest, 

but rode 
Ere midnight to her walls, and bound 

his horse 
Hard by the gates. Wide open were 

the gates. 
And no watch kept ; and in thro' 

these he past. 
And heard but his own steps, and his 

own heart 
Beating, for nothing moved but his 

own self. 
And his own shadow. Then he crost 

the court, 
And spied not any light in hall or 

bower. 
But saw the postern portal also wide 
Yawning ; and up a slope of garden, 

all 
Of roses white and red, and brambles 

mi.\t 
And overgrowing them, went on, and 

found. 
Here too, all hush'd below the mellow 

moon. 
Save that one rivulet from a tiny 

cave 
Came lightening downward, and so 

spilt itself 
Among the roses, and was lost again. 

Then was he ware of three pavilions 
rear'd 
Above the bushes, gilden-peakt : m 

Red after revel, droned her lurdane 

knights 
Slumbering, and their three squires 

across their feet : 
In one, their malice on the placid lip 
Froz'n by sweet sleep, four of her 

damsels lay: 
And in the third,, the circlet of the 

jousts 
Bound on her brow, were Gawain and 

Ettarre. 





Pellcas and Ettarre. 



Back, as a hand that pushes thro' 

the leaf 
To find a nest and feels a snake, he 

drew : 
Back, as a coward slinks from what he 

fears 
To cope with, or a traitor proven, or 

hound 
Beaten, did Pelleas in an utter 

shame 
Creep with his shadow thro' the court 



There on the castle-bridge once more, 

and thought, 
' I will go back, and slay them where 

they lie.' 

And so went back and seeing them 

yet in sleep 
Said, ' Ye, that so dishallow the holy 

sleep, 
Your sleep is death,' and drew the 

sword, and thought, 
' What ! slay a sleeping knight ? the 

King hath bound 
And sworn me to this brother- 
hood; ' again, 
' Alas that ever a knight should be so 

false.' 
Then turn'd, and so return'd, and 

groaning laid 
The naked sword athwart their naked 



Then 
The 



and thi 

V. 

Df th: 



eeping ; and 
nd her 



brows, 
the sword of the tourney 
her throat. 



And forth he past, and mounting on 
his horse 

Stared at her towers that, larger than 
themselves 

In their own darkness, throng'd into 
the moon. 

Then crush'd the saddle with his 
thighs, and clench'd 

His hands, and madden'd with him- 
self and moan'd : 





' Would they have risen : 

in their blood 
At the last day .' I might have an- 

swer'd them 
Even before high God. O towers so 

Huge, solid, would that even while I 

gaze 
The crack of earthquake shivering 

to your base 
Split you, and Hell burst up your 

harlot roofs 
Bellowing, and charr'dyou thro' and 

thro' within, 
Black as the harlot's heart — hollow 

as a skull ! , 
Let the fierce east scream thro' your 

eyelet-holes. 
And whirl the dust of harlots round 

In dung and nettles ! hiss, snake — I 

saw him there — 
Let the fox bark, let the wolf yell. 

Who yells 
Here in the still sweet summer night, 

but I— 
I, the poor Pelleas whom she call'd 

her fool ? 
Fool, beast — he, she, or I .' myself 

most fool ; 
Beast too, as lacking human wit — 

disgraced, 
Dishonor'd all for trial of true love- 
Love .> we be all alike : only the 

King 
Hath made us fools and liars. O 

noble vows ! 

great and sane and simple race of 

brutes 
That own no lust because they have 

no law ! 
For why should I have loved her to 

1 loathe her, as I loved her to my 

shame. 
I never loved her, I but lusted for 

her — 
Away—' 

He dash'd the rowel into his 

And bounded forth and vanish'd thro' 





Pelleas and Ettari 



Then she, that felt the cold touch 

on her throat, 
Awakins; knew the sword, and turn'd 

herself 
To Gawain : * Liar, for thou hast not 

slain 
This Pelleas ! here he stood, and might 

have slain 
Me and thvself.' And he that tells 

the tale 
Says that her ever-veering fancy 

To Pelleas, as the one true knight on 

And only lover; and thro' her love 

her life 
Wasted and pined, desiring him in 



But he by wild and i 
the night. 
And oyer hard and soft 



, for half 
riking the 
oft, the spark from off 



Rode 



the: 



■ above the 



vake 



Perci' 



img 



Beside that tower 

was covvl'd, 
Glanced from the rosy forehead of the 

dawn. 
For so the words were flash'd into his 

heart 
He knew not whence or wherefore : ' O 



Pure on 



irgin forehead of the 

would have wept, but 
:yes 

a fountain 



And there he 

felt his eyes 
Harder and drier th; 

bed 
In summer : thither came the village 

girls 
And linger'd talking, and they come 

no more 
Till the sweet heavens have fill'd it 

from the heights 
Again with living waters in, the 

change 
Of seasons: hard his eyes; harder 

his heart 
Seem'd; but so weary were his 

limbs, that he. 





Gasping, ' Of Arthur's hall a 

here. 
Here let me rest and die,' cast hii 

self down, 
And gulf'd his griefs in inmost sleep; 

Till shaken 'by a dream, that Gawain 

fired 
The hall of Merlin, and the morning 



He woke, and being ware of some 

one nigh, 
Sent hands upon him, as to tear him, 

crying, 
' False ! and I held thee pure as 

But Percivale stood near him and 

replied, 
' Am I but false as Guinevere is pure ? 
Or art thou mazed with dreams ? or 

being one 
Of our free-spoken Table hast not 

heard 
That Lancelot' — there he check'd 

himself and paused. 

Then fared it with Sir Pelleas as 
with one 
Who gets a wound in battle, and the 

That made it plunges thro' the wound 

again, 
And pricks it deeper : and he shrank 

andwail'd, 
' Is the Queen false ? ' and Percivale 

was mute. 
' Have any of our Round Table held 

their vows ? ' 
And Percivale made answer not a 

word, 
' Is the King true ? ' ' The King I ' 

said Percivale. 
' Why then let men couple at once 

with wolves. 
What I art thou mad .' ' 

But Pelleas, leaping up. 
Ran thro' the doors and vaulted on his 
horse 





Pelleas and Ettarre. 



And fled : small pity upon his horse 

had he, 
Or on himself, or any, and when he 

met 
A cripple, one that held a hand for 

alms — 
Hunch'd as he was, and liUe an old 

That turns its back on the salt blast, 

the boy 
Paused not, but overrode him, shout- 
ing, ' False, 
And false with Gawain I ' and so left 

him bruised 
And batter'd, and fled on, and hill 

and wood 
Went ever streaming by him till the 

gloom, 
That follows on tlie turning of the 

world, 
Darken'd the common path : he 

twitch'd the reins, 
And made his beast that better knew 

it, swerve 
Now off it and now on ; but when he 

saw 
High up in Heaven the hall that 

Merlin built, 
Blackening against the dead-green 

stripes of even, 
' Black nest of rats,' he groan 'd ' ye 

build too high.' 

. Not long thereafter from the city 
gates 

Issued Sir Lancelot riding airily, 

Warm with a gracious parting from 
the Queen, 

Peace at his heart, and gazing at a star 

And marvelling what it was : on whom 
the boy. 

Across the silent seeded meadow- 
grass 

Borne, clash'd: and Lancelot, saying, 
' What name hast thou 

That ridest here so blindly and so 

' No name, no name,' he shouted, ' a 

scourge am I 
To lash the treasons of the Table 

Round.' 
' Yea, but thy name .' ' 'I have many 

names,' he cried : 





' I am wrath and shame and hate and 

evil fame, 
And like a poisonous wind I pass to 

blast 
And blaze the crime of Lancelot and 

the Queen.' 
' First over me,' said Lancelot, ' shalt 

thou pass.' 
' Fight therefore,' yell'd the youth, 

and either knight 
Drew back a space, and when they 

closed, at once 
The weary steed of Pelleas flounder- 
ing flung 
His rider, who call'd out from the 

dark field, 
' Thou art false as Hell : slay me : I 

have no sword.' 
Then Lancelot, ' Yea, between thy 

lips — and sharp ; 
But here will I disedge it by thy 

death.' ' 

' Slay then,' he shriek'd, ' my 



IS to 
with his heel upon the 



And Lancek 

fall'n. 
Rolling his eyes, a moment stood, 

then spake : 
' Rise, weakling ; I am Lancelot ; say 

thy say.' 

And Lancelot slowly rode his war- 
horse back 

To Camelot, and Sir Pelleas in brief 
while 

Caught his unbroken limbs from the 
dark field. 

And follow'd to the city. It chanced 
that both 

Brake into hall together, worn and 
pale. 

There with her knights and dames 
was Guinevere. 

Full wonderingly she gazed on Lance- 
lot 

So soon return'd, and then on Pelleas, 
him 

Who had not greeted her, but 
himself 

Down on a bench, hard-breathing. 
' Have ye fought ? ' 

She ask'd of Lancelot. ' Ay, my 
Queen,' he said. 





Pclkas and Ettarre—The Last Touniatnent 



' And thou hast overthrown him ? ' 

' Ay, my Queen.' 
Then she, turning to Pelleas, ' O 

young knight. 
Hath the great heart of knighthood 

in thee fail'd 
So far thou canst not bide, unfro- 

wardlv, 
A fall from him ? ' Then, for he an- 

sner'd not, 
' Or hast thou other griefs ? If I, the 

Queen, 
May help them, loose thy tongue, and 

let nie know.' 
But Pelleas lifted up an eye so fierce 
She quail'd ; and he, hissing ' I have 



Sprang from the 

The Quee 

Look'd hard up 



no the dark. 

lover, he on 

her: 
And each foresaw the dolorous day to 

be: 
And all talk died, as in a grove all 

song 
Beneath the shadow of some bird of 

ne upon the 

The time is 



prey ; 
Then a long silence 

hall. 
And Modred thougl 

hard at hand.' 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 

D.\GONET, the fool, whom Gawain in 

his mood 
Had made mock-knight of Arthur's 

Table Round, 
At Camelot, high above the yellowing 

woods, 
Danced like a wither'd leaf before the 

hall. 
And toward him from the hall, with 

harp ill hand. 
And from the crown thereof a carca- 

net 
Of ruby swaying to and fro, the 

prize 
Of Tristram in the jousts of yester- 
day. 
Came Tristram, saying, ' Why skip ye 

so. Sir Fool ! ' 




For Arthu 




nd Sir Lance 



Far down beneath a winding wall of 

Heard a child wail. A stump of oak 

half-dead, 
From roots like some black coil of 

carven snakes, 
Clutch'd at the crag, and started thro' 

raid air 
Bearing an eagle's nest : and thro' the 

tree 
Rush'd ever a rainy wind, and thro' 

the wind 
Pierced ever a child's cry : and crag 

and tree 
Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the peril- 
ous nest, 
This rubv necklace thrice around her 

neck. 
And all unscarr'd from beak or talon, 

brought 
A maiden babe ; which Arthur pitying 

Then gave it to his Queen to rear: 

the Queen 
But coldly acquiescing, in her white 

arms 
Received, and after loved it tenderly, 
And named it Nestling ; so forgot 

herself 
A moment, and her cares ; till that 

young life 
Being smitten in mid heaven with 

mortal cold 
Past from her ; and in time the carca- 

Ve.\t her with plaintive memories of 
the child: 

So she, delivering it to Arthur, said, 

' Take thou the jewels of this dead in- 
nocence, 

And make them, an thou wilt, a tour- 
ney-prize.' 

To whom the King, ' Peace to thine 

eagle-borne 
Dead nestling, and this honor afte 

death. 
Following thy will ! but, O my Queen, 



Why ye 



: wear on arm, or neck. 





The Last Tournament. 



ds that I rescued from 



' Would rather you had let them 

fall,' she cried, 
' Plunge and be lost — ill-fated as they 

were, 
A bitterness to me ! — ye look amazed. 
Not knowing they were lost as soon 



Slid fr 






hand 



vhen I ■ 



lean 



Above the river — that unhappy child 
Past in her barge : but rosier luck will 

go 

With these rich jewels, seeing that 
they came 

Not from the skeleton of a brother- 
slayer. 

But the sweet body of a maiden babe. 

Perchance — who knows ? — the purest 
of thy knights 

May win them for the purest of my 
maids.' 

She ended, and the cry of a great 



From Camelot in among the faded 

fields 
To furthest towers ; and everywhere 

the knights 
Arm'd for a day of glory before the 

King. 

But on the hither side of that loud 
morn 

Into the hall stagger'd, his visage 
ribb'd 

From ear to ear with dogwhip-weals, 
his nose 

Bridge-broken, one eye out, and one 
hand off. 

And one with shatter'd fingers dan- 
gling lame, 

A churl, to whom indignantly the 





Hath drawn his claws athwart thy 
face } or fiend .' 

Man was it who marr'd heaven's im- 
age in thee thus ? ' 

Then, sputtering thro' the hedge of 

splinter'd teeth, 
Yet strangers to the tongue, and with 

blunt stump 
Pitch-blacken'd sawing the air, said 

the maim'd churl, 

' He took them and he drave them 
to his tower — 
Some hold he was a table-knight of 



thii 



-the Red 



A hundred goodly 

Knight, he — 
Lord, I was tending swine, and the 

Red Knight 
Brake in upon me and drave them to 

his tower ; 
And when I call'd upon thy name as 

one 
That doest right by gentle and by 

churl, 
Maim'd me and maul'd, and would 

outright have slain. 
Save that he sware me to a message, 

saying, 
" Tell thou the King and all his liars, 

that I 
Have founded my Round Table in the 

North, 
And whatsoever his own knights have 

sworn 
My knights have sworn the counter to 

it — and say 
My tower is full of harlots, like his 

court, 
But mine are worthier, seeing they 

profess 
To be none other than themselves — 

and say 
My knights are all adulterers like his 

But mine are truer, seeing they pro- 
fess 

To be none other; and say his hour 
is come, 

The heathen are upon him, his long 



lane 



Broke 



md his Excalibi 





The Last Toicrnamcnt. 



Then Arthur turn'd to Kay the 

seneschal, 
' Take thou my churl, and tend him 

curiously 
Like a king's heir, till all his hurts be 

whole. 
The heathen— but that ever-climbing 



n empty 
nd rene- 



Hurl'd back again so oft 

foam, 
Hath lain for years at res 

gades, 

Thieves, bandits, leavings of confu- 
sion, whom 
The wholesome realm is purged of 

otherwhere. 
Friends, thro' your manhood and your 

fealty, — now 
Make their last head like Satan in the 

North. 
My younger knights, new-made, in 

whom your flower 
Waits to be solid fruit of golden 

deeds, 
Move with me toward their quelling, 

which achieved, 
The loneliest ways are safe from 

shore to shore. 
But thou, Sir Lancelot, sitting in my 

place 
Enchair'd to-morrow, arbitrate the 

field; 
For wherefore shouldst thou care to 

mingle with it, 
Only to yield my Queen her own 

again.' 
Speak, Lancelot, thou art silent : is it 

well ? ' 

Thereto Sir Lancelot answer'd, ' It 
is well : 
Yet better if the King abide, and leave 
The leading of his younger knights to 



Then .•\rthur rose and Lancelot fol- 
lowed him, 

And while they stood without the 
doors, the King 

Turn'd to him saying, ' Is it then so 
well ? 




Or min 

1 
Of who 



the blame that oft I see 
II was written, " A sound 




The foot that loiters, bidden go,— the 
glance 

That only seems half-loyal to com- 
mand, — 

A manner somewhat fall'n from rever- 
ence — 

Or have I clream'd the bearing of our 
knights 

Tells of a manhood ever less and 
lower .' 

Or whence the fear lest this my realm, 
uprear'd. 

By noble deeds at one with noble 

From flat confusion and brute vio- 
Reel back into the beast, and be no 



He spoke, and taking all his 

younger knights, 
Down the slope city rode, and sharply 

turn'd 
North by the gate. In her high 

bower the Queen, 
Working a tapestry, lifted up her head, 
Watch'd her lord pass, and knew not 

that she sigh'd. 
Then ran across her memory the 

strange rhyme 
Of bygone Merlin, ' Where is he who 



the great de 
deep he 



the great 



e goes. 

But when the morning of a tour- 

t those in mockery 

of the Dead Inno- 

wiud blowing, Lan- 
celot, 

Round whose sick head all night, like 
birds of prey, 

The words of Arthur flying shriek'd. 

And down a streetway hung with 
folds of pure 



By these in ( 
call'd 

The Toui 

cence, 

Brake with a 





The Last Tournament. 



White samite, and by fuu 



' Where children sat in white with cups 

of gold, 
Moved to the lists, and there, with 

slow sad steps 
Ascending, fiU'd his double-dragon'd 

chair. 

He glanced and saw the stately 
galleries, 

Dame, damsel, each thro' worship of 
their Queen 

White-robed in honor of the stain- 
less child, 

And some with scatter'd jewels, like a 
bank 

Of maiden snow mingled with sparks 
of fire. 

He look'd but once, and vail'd his 
eyes again. 

The sudden trumpet sounded as in 

a dream 
To ears but half-awaked, then one low 

roll 
Of Autumn thunder, and the jousts 

And ever the wind blew, and yellow- 
ing leaf 

And gloom and gleam, and shower 
and shorn plume 

Went down it. Sighing weariedly, as 
one 

Who sits and gazes on a faded fire. 

When all the goodlier guests are past 

Sat their great umpire, looking o'er 

the lists. 
He saw the laws that ruled the tour- 
nament 
Broken, but spake not; once, a knight 

cast down 
Before his throne of arbitration cursed 
The dead babe and the follies of the 

King ; 
And once the laces of a helmet 

crack'd. 
And show'd him, like a vermin in its 

hole, 
Modred, a narrow face : anon he heard 
The voice that billow'd round the 

barriers roar 




i-s,.iunding 




JBut 
And 



There tript a hundred tiny silver deer. 
And wearing but a hully-spray for 

With ever-scattering berries, and on 

shield 
A spear, a harp, a bugle — Tristram — 

late 
From overseas in Brittany return'd, 
And marriage with a princess of that 



-Sir Tristram of the 
had held 



Isolt the Whit 

Woods — 
Whom Lancelot knew 

His own against him, and now yearn'd 

to shake 
The burthen off his heart in one full 

shock 
With Tristram ev'n to death : his 

strong hands gript 
And dinted the gilt dragons right and 

left. 
Until he groan'd for wrath — so many 

of those. 
That ware their ladies' colors on the 



And there with gibes and flickering 

mockeries 
Stood, while he mutter'd, ' Craven 

crests ! O shame ! 
What faith have these in whom they 

sware to love .' 
The glory of our Round Table is no 



won, and Lancelot 

gave, the gems. 
Not speaking other word than ' Hast 

thou won ? 
Art thou the purest, brother ? See, 

the hand 
Wherewith thou takest this, is red!' 

to whom 
Tristram, half plagued by Lancelot's 

languorous mood. 





The Last Tournatnent. 



, ' Ay, but wherefore toss 
bone cast to some hungry- 



Let be thy fair Queen's fantasy. 

Strength of heart 
And might of limb, but mainly use 

and skill. 
Are winners in this pastime of our 

King. 
My hand— belike the lance hath dript 

No blood of mine, I trow ; but O 

chief knight, 
Right arm of Arthur in the battlefield, 
Great brother, thou nor I have made 

the world; 
Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in 

mine.' 

And Tristram round the gallery 
made his horse 

Caracole ; then bow'd his homage, 
bluntly saying, 

' Fair damsels, each to him who wor- 
ships each 

Sole Queen of Beauty and of love, be- 
hold 

This day mv Queen of Beauty is not 
here.' 

And most of these were mute, some 
anger'd, one 

Murmuring, 'All courtesy is dead,' 
and one, 

'The glory of our Round Table is no 



Then fell thick rain, plume droopt 
and mantle clung, 
And pettish cries awoke, and the wan 

Went glooming down in wet and 

weariness : 
But under her black brows a swarthy 

one 
Laugh'd shrilly, crying, ' Praise the 

patient saints, 
Our one white day of Innocence hath 

past, 
Tho' somewhat draggled at the skirt. 

So be it. 
The snowdrop only, flowering thro' 

the vear, 





Would make the world as blank as 
Winter-tide. 

Come — let us gladden their sad eyes, 
our Queen's 

And Lancelot's, at this night's so- 
lemnity 

With all the kindlier colors of the 
field.' 

So dame and damsel glitter'd at the 

feast 
Variously gay : for he that tells the 

tale 
Liken'd them, saying, as when an 

hour of cold 
Falls on the mountain in midsummer 

snows, 
And all the purple slopes of mountain 

flowers 
Pass under white, till the warm hour 



With 


veer of w 


nd, a 


id all 


are flow- 


Sod. 
And 


niramfdamsel 
white, 
glowing in all 


cast the simple 
colors, the live 


Rose 


campion, 


blue 


bell. 


kingcup. 



Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, the 
Queen, 

And wroth at Tristram and the law- 
less jousts. 

Brake up their sports, then slowly to 
her bower 

Parted, and in her bosom pain was 
lord. 

And little Dagonet on the morrow 
morn , 

High over all the yellowing Autumn- 
tide, 

Danced like a wither'd leaf before the 
hall. 

Then Tristram saying, ' Whv skip ye 
so. Sir Fool > ' 

Wheel'd round on either heel, Dag- 
onet replied, 

' Belike for lack of wiser company ; 

Or being fool, and seeing too much 





The Last Touniamcnt. 



Makes the world rotten, why. belike I 
skip 

To know myself the wisest knight of 
all.' ' 

' Ay, fool,' said Tristram, ' but 'tis eat- 
ing dry 

To dance without a catch, a rounde- 
lay 

To dance to.' Then he twangled on 
his harp. 

And while he twangled little Dagonet 
stood 

Quiet as any water-sodden log 

Stay'd in the wandering warble of a 
brook ; 

But when the tvvangling ended, skipt 

And being ask'd, 'Why skipt ye not. 

Sir Fool?' 
Made answer, ' I had liefer twenty 

years 
Skip to the broken music of my 

brains 
Than any broken music thou canst 

make.' 
Then Tristram, waiting for the quip 

to come, 
' Good now, what inusic have I 

broken, fool .■* * 
And little Dagonet, skipping, 'Ar- 
thur, the King's; 
For when thou playest that air with 

Queen Isolt, 
Thou makest broken music with thy 

bride. 
Her daintier namesake down in Brit- 

And so thou breakest Arthur's music 

' Save for that broken music in thy 

brains, 
Sir Fool,' said Tristram, "I would 

break thy head. 
Fool, I came late, the heathen wars 

were o'er. 
The life had flown, we sware but by 

the shell— 
I am but a fool to reason with a fool — 
Come, thou art crabb'd and sour : but 

lean me down, 
Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses' 

ears. 
And harken if mv music be not true. 





'•'Free love — free field — we love 
but wliile we may : 
The woods are hush'd, their music is 

The leaf is dead, the yearning past 

New leaf, new life — the days of frost 

are o'er : 
New life, new love, to suit the newer 

day: 
New loves are sweet as those that 

went before: 
Free love — free field — we love but 

while we may." 

' Ye might have moved slow-meas- 
ure to my tune, 
Not stood stockstill. I made it in the 

And heard it ring as true as tested 
gold.' 

But Dagonet with one foot poised 

in his hand, 
' Friend, did ye mark that fountain 

yesterday 
Made to run wine? — but this had run 

itself 
All out like a long life to a sour 

And them that round it sat with 

golden cups 
To hand the wine 

came — 
The twelve small da 

Innocence, 
In honor of poor Innocenc 

babe. 
Who left the gems which Innocence 

the Queen 

.) the King, and Innocence the 



fhosoever 
white as 
the 



Lent 

Gave for a prize — and one of those 
white slips 

Handed her cup and piped, the pretty 
one, 

" Drink, drink. Sir Fool," and there- 
upon I drank, 

Spat — pish — the cup was gold, the 
draught ■ 



And Tristram, 'Was it 
than thy gibes ? 





The Last Touniameni. 



Is all the laughter gone dead out of 

thee ?— 
Not marking how the knighthood 

mock thee, fool — 
" Fear God : honor the King — his one 

true knight- 
Sole follower of the vows" — for here 

be they 
Who knew thee swine enow before I 

came, 
Smuttier than blasted grain : but 

when the King 
Had made thee fool, thy vanity so 

shot up 
It frighted all free fool from out thy 

heart; 
Which left thee less than fool, and 

less than swine, 
A naked aught — yet swine I hold 

thee still. 
For I have flung thee pearls and find 

thee swine.' 

And little Dagonet mincing with 

his feet, 
' Knight, an ye fling those rubies 

round my neck 
In lieu of hers, I'll hold thou hast 

some touch 
Of music, since I care not for thy 

pearls. 
Swine.' I have wallow'd, I have 

wash'd — the world 
Is flesh and shadow — I have had my 

day. 
The dirty nurse, E.xperience, in her 

kind 
Hath foul'd me — an I wallow'd, then 

I wash'd — 
I have had my day and my philoso- 

phies- 
And thank the Lord I am King 

Arthur's fool. 
Swine, say ye .' swine, goats, asses, 

rams and geese 
Troop'd round a Paynim harper once, 

who thrumm'd 
On such a wire as musically as thou 
Some such fine song — but never a 

king's fool.' 



' Then were swine, 
, geese 





The wiser fools, seeing thy Payr 

bard 
Had such a mastery of his mystery 
That he could harp his wife up out of 

hell.' 

Then Dagonet, turning on the ball 

of his foot, 
'And whither harp'st thou thine? 

down ! and thyself 
Down ! and two more : a helpful 

harper thou. 
That harpest downward I Dost thou 

know the star 
We call the harp of Arthur up in 

heaven .' ' 

And Tristram, 'Ay, Sir Fool, for 

when our King 
Was victor wellnigh day by day, the 

knights. 
Glorying in each new glory, set his 

name 
High on all hills, and in the signs of 

heaven.' 

And Dagonet answer'd, ' Ay, and 
when the land 
Was freed, and the Queen false, ye 

set yourself 
To babble about him, all to show 



your 



And whether he were King by court- 

Or King' by right — and so went harp- 
ing down 

The black king's highway, got so far, 
and grew 

So witty that ye play'd at ducks and 
drakes 

With Arthur's vows on the great lake 
of fire. 

Tuwhoo ! do ye see it ? do ye see 
the star ? ' 



' Nay, fool,' said Tristram, 'not in 

o|)en day.' 
And Dagonet,'' Nay, nor will: I see 

It and hear. 
It makes a silent music up in 

heaven. 
And I, and Arthur and the angels 





The Last Tournament. 



And then we skip.' ' Lo, fool,' he 

said, 'ye talk 
Fool's treason: is- the King thy 

brother fool ? ' 
Then little Dagonet clapt his hands 

and shrili'd, 
' Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of 

fools ! 
Conceits himself as God that he can 

make 
Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, 

milk 
From burning spurge, honey from 

hornet-combs, 
Aud men from beasts— Long live the 

king of fools ! ' 

And down the city Dagonet danced 

away ; 
But thro' the slowly-mellowing 

avenues 
And solitary passes of the wood 
Rode Tristram toward Lyonnesse and 

the west. 
Before him fled the face of Queen 

Isolt 
With ruby-circled neck, but evermore 
Past, as a rustle or twitter in the 

wood 
Made dull his inner, keen his outer 

eye 
For all that walk'd, or crept, or perch'd, 

or flew. 
Anon the face, as, when a gust hath 

blown, 
UnrufHing waters re-collect the 

shape 
Of one that in them sees himself, re- 

turn'd ; 
IJut at the slot or fewmets of a deer. 
Or ev'n a fall'n feather, vanish'd 

again. 

So on for all that day from lawn to 

Thro' many a league-long bower he 

rode. At length 
A lodge of intertwisted beechen- 

boughs 
Furze-cramm'd, and bracken-rooft, 

the which himself 
Built for a summer dav with Queen 

Isolt 





spake 



any 



Against a shower, 
grove 

Appearing, sent his fancy back to 
where 

She lived a moon in that low lodge 
with him : 

Till Mark her lord had past, the Cor- 
nish King, 

With six or seven, when Tristram was 

And snatch'd her thence ; yet dreading 
worse than shame 

Her warrior Ti 
word. 

But bode his hour, devising wretched- 
ness. 

And now that desert lodge to 

Tristram lookt 
So sweet, that halting, in he past, and 

sank 
Down on a drift of foliage random- 
blown ; 
But could not rest for musing how to 

smoothe 
And sleek his marriage over to the 

Queen. 
Perchance in lone Tintagil far from all 
The tonguesters of the court she had 

not heard. 
But then what folly had sent him over- 
seas 
After she left him lonely here.' a 

name ? 
Was it the name of one in Brittany, 
Isolt, the daughter of the King ? 

'Isolt 
Of the white hands ' they call'd her : 

the sweet name 
Allured him first, and then the maid 

herself. 
Who served him well with those white 

hands of hers, 
And loved him well, until himself had 

thought 
He loved her also, wedded easily. 
But left her all as easily, andreturn'd. 
The black-blue Irish hair and Irish 

eyes 
Had drawn him home — what marvel ? 

then he laid 
His brows upon the drifted leaf and 

dream'd. 





THE VOICE OF THE DEAD WAS A LrV'ING VOICE TO ME."— Pag,- lo6. 




The Last Tournament. 



iby- 



He seem'd to pace the strand of 

Brittany 
etueen Isolt ot Britain and his 

bride, 
And show'd them both the 

chain, and both 
Began to struggle for it, till his Queen 
Graspt it so hard, that all her hand 

was red. 
Then cried the Breton, ' Look, her 

hand is red ! 
These be no rubies, this is frozen 

blood, 
And melts within her hand — her hand 

is hot 
With ill desires, but this I gave thee, 

look. 
Is all as cool and white as any flower.' 
Follow'd a rush of eagle's wings, and 

then 
A whimpering o£ the spirit of the 

child. 
Because the twain had spoil'd hercar- 

canet. 

He dream'd ; but Arthur with a 

hundred spears 
Rode far, till o'er the illimitable reed, 
And many a glancing plash and sal- 

lowy isle. 
The wide-nang'd sunset of the misty 

marsh 
Glared on a huge machicolated tower 
That stood with open doors, whereout 

was rcll'd 
A roar of riot, as from men secure 
Amid their marshes, ruffians at their 

ease 
Among their harlot-brides, an evil 

'Lo there,' said one of Arthur's 

youth, for there. 
High on a grim dead tree before the 

A goodlv brother of the Table Round 
-Swung by the neck : and on the 

boughs a shield 
Showing a shower of blood in a field' 



And therebeside a horn, inflamed the 

knights 
At that dishonor done the gilded 




Till each would clash the shield, and 

blow the horn. 
But Arthur waved them back. Alone 

he rode. 
Then at the dry harsh roar of the 

great horn. 
That sent the face of all the marsh 

aloft 
An ever upward-rushing storm and 

cloud 
Of shriek and plume, the Red Knight 

heard, and all, 
Kven to tipmost lance and topmost 

helm, 
In blood-red armor, sallying, howl'd 

to the King, 

' The teeth of Hell— flay bare and 

gnash thee fiat ! — 
Lo ! art thou not that eunuch-hearted 

King 
Who fain had dipt free manhood 

from the world — 
The woman-worshipper.' Yea, God's 

curse, and I ! 
Slain was the brother of my para- 
mour 
By a knight of thine, and I that heard 

her whine 
And snivel, being eunuch-hearted too, 
Sware by the scorpion-worm that 

twists in hell. 
And stings itself to everlasting death. 
To hant; whatever knight of thine I 

fought 
And tumbled. Art thou King ?— Look 

to thy life ! ' 

Heended: Arthur knew the voice ; 
the face 
Welhiigh was helmet-hidden, and the 

evvhere darkling 



Went ■ 



idering s 
in his mind. 

And Arthur deign'd not use of word 
or sword, 

But let the drunkard, as he stretch'd 
from horse 

To strike him, overbalancing his bulk, 

Down from the c 
the swamp 

Fall, as the crest of some slow-arch- 
ing wave. 





The Last Tournament. 



Heard in dead night along that table- 
shore, 
Drops flat, and after the great waters 

break 
Whitening for half a league, and thin 

themselves. 
Far over sands marbled with moon 

and cloud, 
From less and less to nothing; thus 

he fell 
Head-heavy ; then the knights,' who 

watch'd him, roar'd 
And shouted and leapt down upon the 

fall'n ; 
There trarnpled out his face from be- 
ing known, 
And sank his head in mire, and 

slimed themselves : 
Nor heard the King for their own 

cries, but sprang 
Thro' open doors, and swording right 

and left 
Men, women, on their sodden faces, 

hurl'd 
The tables over and the wines, and 

slew 
Till all the rafters rang with woman- 

And all the pavement stream'd with 

massacre ; 
Then, echoing yell with yell, they 

fired the tower, 
Which half that autumn night, like 

the live North, 
Red -pulsing up thro' Alioth and 

Alcor, 
Made all above it, and a hundred 

About it, as the water Moab saw 
Come round by the East, and out be- 
yond them flush'd 
The long low dune, and lazy-plunging 
sea. 

So all the ways were safe from shore 

was 

Then, out of Tristram waking, the 
red dream 
Fled with a shout, and that low lodge 





Mid-forest, and the wind among the 

boughs. 
He whistled his good warhorse left to 

graze 
Among the forest greens, vaulted 

u|)on him. 
And rode beneath an ever-showering 

leaf. 
Till one lone woman, weeping near a 

cross, 
Stay'd him. ' Why weep ye .' ' ' Lord,' 

she said, ' my man 
Hath left me or is dead ; ' whereon he 

thought — 
' What, if she hate me now t I would 



What, if she love me 


still .' I would 


not that. 




know not what I wo 


uld '—but said 


to her. 




Yet weep not thou, 1 


St, if thy mate 



He find thy favor changed and love 

thee not ' — 
Then pressing day by day thro' Lyon- 

nesse 
Last in a roky hollow, belling, heard 
The hounds of Mark, and felt the 

goodly hounds 
Yelp at his heart, but turning, past 

and gain'd 
Tintagil, half in sea, and high on land, 
A crown of towers. 

Down in a casement sat, 

A low sea-sunset glorying round her 
hair 

And glossy-throated grace, Isolt the 
Queen. 

And when she heard the feet of Tris- 
tram grind 

The spiring stone that scaled about 



him at the doors, 



her 

Flush'd, started, i 
and there 

Belted his body with her white em- 
brace, 

•Crying aloud, ' Not Mark — not Mark, 
my soul ! 

The footstep flutter'd me at first : not 
he: 

Catlike thro' his own castle steals my 





The Last Tournament. 



But warrior-wise thou stridest thro' 

his halls 
Who hates thee, as I him — ev'n to 

the death. 
My soul, I felt my hatred for my 

Mark 
Quicken within me, and knew that 

thou wert nigh.' 
To whom Sir Tristram smiling, ' I am 

here. 
Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not 

thine.' 

And drawing somewhat backward 

she replied, 
'Can he be wrong'd who is not ev'n 

his own, 
But save for dread of thee had beaten 

me, 
Scratch'd, bitten, blinded, marr'd me 

somehow — Mark ? 
What rights are his that dare not 

strike for them ? 
Not lift a hand — not, tho' he found 

me thus ! 
Hut harken ! have ye met him .' hence 

he went 
To-day for three days' hunting — as he 

said — 
And so returns belike within an hour. 
Mark's way, mv soul ! — but eat not 

thou" with' Mark, 
Because he hates thee even more than 

fears ; 
Nor drink: and when thou passest 

any wood 
Close vizor, lest an arrow from the 

bush 
Should leave me all alone with Mark 

and hell. 
My God, the measure of mv hate for 

Mark 
Is as the measure of my love for thee.' 

So, pluck'd one way bvhate and one 

by love, 
Drain'd of her force, again she sat, 

and spake 
To Tristram, as he knelt before her, 

saying, 
' O hunter, and O blower of the horn, 
Harper, and thou hast been a rover 





Of 



twain had fallen out about the 

bride 
one — his name is out of me— the 



If prize she were — (what marvel— she 

could see) — 
Thine, friend ; and ever since my 

craven seeks 
To wreck thee villainously : but, O Sir 

Knight, 
What dame or damsel have ye kneel 'd 

to last .' ' 

And Tristram, ' Last to my Queen 

Paramount, 
Here now to my Queen Paramount of 

love 
And loveliness — ay, lovelier than 

when first 
Her light feet fell on our rough Lyon- 

nesse, 
Sailing from Ireland.' 

Softlvlnugh'd Isolt; 

' Flatter me not, for hath nui our great 
Queen 

My dole of beauty trebled } ' and he 
said, 

' Her beauty is her beauty, and thine 
thine. 

And thine is more to me — soft, gra- 
cious, kind — 

Save when thy Mark is kindled on 
thy lips 

Most gracious ; but she, haughty, ev'n 

Lancelot ; for I have seen him wan 
doubt if ever the great 
love.' 



To make 

Queen 
Have vielded h 



To whom Isolt, 
' Ah then, false hunter and false har- 
per, thou 
Who brakest thro' the scruple of my 

bond. 
Calling me thy white hind, and saying 



That Guinevere had 
the highest. 





The Last Touniatimit. 



And I — misyoked with such a want 

of man- 
That I could hardly sin against the 



He answer'd, ' O my soul, be com- 
forted ! 

If this be sweet, to sin in leading- 
strings, 

If here be comfort, and if ours be sin, 

Crown'd warrant had we for the 
crowning sin 

That made us happy : but how ye 
greet me — fear 

And fault and doubt — no word of that 
fond tale — 

Thy deep heart-yearnings, thy sweet 
memories 

Of Tristram in that year he was away.' 

And, saddening on the sudden, 
spake Isolt, 
I had forgotten all in my strong joy 
To see thee — yearnings ? — ay ! for, 

hour by hour. 
Here in the never-ended afternoon, 
O sweeter than all memories of thee. 
Deeper than any yearnings after thee 
Seem'd those far-rolling, westward- 
smiling seas, 
Watch'd from this tower. Isolt of 

liritaindash'd 
Before Isolt of Brittany on the strand. 
Would that have chill'd her bride- 
kiss ? Wedded her .> 
Fought in her father's battles? 

wounded there ? 
The King was all fujlill'd with grate- 

fufness, 
And she, my namesake of the hands, 

that heal'd 
Thy hurt and heart with unguent and 

Well — can I wish her any huger 

wrong 
Than having known thee ? her too 

hast thou left 
To pine and waste in those sweet 

memories. 
O were I not my Mark's, by whom all 

men 
Are noble. I should hate thee more 





And Tristram, fondling her light 

hands, replied, 
' Grace, Queen, for being loved : she 

loved me well. 
Did I love her ? the name at least I 

loved. 
Isolt ? — I fought his battles, for Isolt ! 
The night was dark ; the true star set. 

Isolt ! ■ 
The name was ruler of the dark 

Isolt .' 
Care not for her ! patient, and prayer- 
ful, meek. 
Pale-blooded, she will yield herself to 

God.' 

And Isolt answer'd, ' Yea, and why 

not I .' 
Mine is the larger need, who am not 

meek. 
Pale-blooded, prayerful. Let me tell 



the 



:nute midsummei 
on thee, wonder 



Here one black 

night I sat, 
Lonely, but musii 

ing where. 
Murmuring a light song I had heard 

thee sing. 
And once or twice I spake thy name 

aloud. 
Then ilash'd a levin-brand ; and near 

me stood. 
In fuming sulphur blue and green, a 

fiend- 
Mark's way to steal behind one in the 

dark— 
For there was Mark : " He has wed- 
ded her," he said. 
Not said, but hiss'd it : then this 

So shook to such a roar of all the 

sky. 
That here in utter dark I swoon'd 

away. 
And woke ag 

cried, 
"I will flee h 

God "— 
And thou wert lying in thy new le- 

man's arms.' 



dark, and 
myself to 



Th, 



Tris 



ever d 





The Last Tournament. 



• May God be with thee, sweet, when 
old and gray, 

And past desire ! ' a saying that an- 
gered her. 

' " Mav God be with thee, sweet, when 
'thou art old. 

And sweet no more to me ! " I need 
Him now. 

For when had Lancelot utter'd aught 
so gross 

Ev'n to the swineherd's malkin in the 

The greater man, the greater courtesy. 
Far other was the Tristram, Arthur's 

linight! 
But thou, thro' ever harrying thy wild 

beasts — 
Save that to touch a harp, tilt with a 

lance 
Becomes thee well — art grown wild 

beast thyself. 
How darest thou, if lover, push me 

In fancy from thy side, and set me far 
In the gray distance, half a life away. 
Her to be loved no more.' Unsay it, 

unswear ! 
Flatter me rather, seeing me so weak. 
Broken with Mark and hate and soli- 
tude. 
Thy marriage and mine own, that I 

should suck 
Lies like sweet wines : lie to me : I 

believe. 
Will ye not lie.' not swear, as there 

ye kneel, 
.\nd solemnly as when ye sware to 

him, 
The man of men, our King — My God, 

the power 
Was once in vows when men believed 

the King! 
They lied not then, who sware, and 



thro' the 



The King 
.Swear to m 



prev 



made his 



say, 



to me thou wilt love me ev 
when old, 
y-h,iir'd, and past desire, and 
despair.' 





' Vows ! did you keep the vow you 

made to Mark 
More than I mine .' Lied, say ye .' 

Nay, but learnt, 
The vow that binds too strictly snaps 

itself— 
My knighthood taught me this — ay, 

being "snapt — 
We run more counter to the soul 

thereof 
Than had we never sworn. I swear 

I swore to the great King, and am 

forsworn. 
For once — ev'n to the height — I hon- 

or'd him. 
" Man, is he man at all ? " methou"ht, 

when first 
I rode from our rough Lvonnesse, and 

beheld 
That victor of the Pagan throned in 

hall— 
His hair, a sun that ray'd from off a 

brow 
Like hillsiiow high in heaven, the 

steel-blue eyes. 
The golden beard that clothed his lips 

with light — 
Moreover, that weird legend of his 

birth. 
With Merlin's mystic babble about 

his end 
Amazed me ; then, his foot was on a 

stool 
Shaped as a dragon ; he seem'd to me 

no man. 
But Michael trampling Satan; so I 

sware, 
Being amazed : but this went by — The 

vows 1 
O ay — the wholesome madness of an 

hour — 
They served their use, their time; for 

every knight 
Believed himself a greater than him- 
self. 
And every follower eyed him as a God ; 
Till he, being lifted up bevond him- 
self, 
Did mightier deeds than elsewise he 

had done. 
And so the realm was made ; but then 

their' vows — 





llie Last Tournament. 



First mainlv thro' that sullying of i 

Queen- 
Began to gall the knighthood, ask 



Had Arthur right to bind them to 

Dropt down from heaven ? wash'd up 

from out the deep ? 
They fail'd to trace him thro' the 

flesh and blood 
Of our old kings: whence then? a 

doubtful lord 
To bind them by inviolable vows, 
Which flesh and blood perforce 

would violate: 
For feel this arm of mine — the tide 

within 
Red with free chase and heather- 
scented air, 
Pulsing full man ; can Arthur make 

me pure 
As any maiden child ? lock up my 

tongue 
From uttering freely what I freely 



Bind 



one? The 
; of the worli 



ide 



rid 



And worldling of the world am I, and 

know 
The ptarmigan that whitens ere his 

hour 
Woos his own end ; we are not angels 

Nor shall be : vows — I am woodman 

of the woods. 
And hear the garnet-headed yaffin- 

gale 
Mock them : my soul, we love but 

while we may; 
And therefore is my love so large for 

thee. 
Seeing it is not bounded save by love.' 

Here ending, he moved toward her, 

and she said, 
' Good : an I turn'd away my love for 

thee 
To some one thrice as courteous as 

thyself— 
For courtesy wins woman all as well 
but he that closes both 
Is perfect, he is Lancelot — taller 

indeed, 





Rosier and cornel 

loved 
This knightliest of all knights, and 

cast thee back 
Thine own small saw, " We love but 

while we may," 
Well then, what answer ? ' 

He that while she spake. 
Mindful of what he brought to adorn 

her with. 
The jewels, had let one finger lightly 

touch 
The warm white apple of her throat, 

replied, 
' Press this a little closer, sweet, until — 
Come, I am hunger'd and half-anger'd 

Wine, wine — and I will love thee to 

the death, 
And out beyond into the dream to 

come.' 

So then, when both were brought 

to full accord, 
She rose, and set before him all he 

will'd; 
And after these had comforted the 

blood 
With meats and wines, and satiated 

their hearts — 
Now talking of their woodland para- 
dise, 
The deer, the dews, the fern, the 

founts, the lawns ; 
Now mocking at the much ungainli- 

ness, 
And craven shifts, and long crane 

legs of Mark — 
Then Tristram laughing caught the 

harp, and sang : 

' Ay, ay, O ay — the winds that bend 
the brier ! 
A. star in heaven, a star within the 

mere ! 
Ay, ay, O ay — a star was my desire. 
And one was far apart, and one 

Ay, ay, O ay — the winds that bow the 

grass ! 
And one was water and one star was 





The Last Tournament — Guinevere. 



And one will ever s 

pass. 
Ay, ay, O ay — the 



le and one will 
nds that move 



Then in the light's last glimmer 

Tristram show'd 
And swung the ruby carcanet. She 

cried, 
' The collar of some Order, which our 

King 
Hath newly founded, all for thee, my 

soul. 
For thee, to yield thee grace beyond 

thy peers.' 

'Not so, my Queen,', he said, 'but 
the red fruit 

Grown on a magic oak-tree in mid- 
heaven, 

And won by Tristram as a tourney- 
prize. 

And hither brought by Tristram for 
his last 

Love-offering and peace-offering unto 
thee.' 



He spoke, he turn'd, then, flinging 

round her neck, 
Claspt it, and cried 'Thine Order, O 

my Queen ! ' 
But, while he bow'd to kiss the jewell'd 

throat, 
Out of the dark, just as the lips had 

touch'd, 
Behind him rose a shadow and a 

shriek — 
'Mark's way,' said Mark, and clove 

him thro' the brain. 

That night came Arthur home, and 

while he climb'd, 
All in a death-dumb autumn-dripping 

gloom, 
The stairwav to the hall, and look'd 

and saw 
The great Queen's bower was dark, — 

about his feet 
A voice clung sobbing till he ques- 

tion'd it, 
' What art thou ? ' and the voice 

about his feet 





Sent up an answer, sobbing, ' I am 

thy fool, 
And I shall never make thee smile 

again.' 



GUINEVERE. 

Queen Guinevere had fled the 

court, and sat 
There in the holy house at Alnies- 

bury 
Weeping, none with her save a little 

maid, 
A novice : one low light betwixt them 

. burn'd 
Blurr'd by the creeping mist, for all 

aboard. 
Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full. 
The white mist, like a face-cloth to 

the face. 
Clung to the dead earth, and the 

land was still. 

For hither had she fled, her cause 

of flight 
Sir Modred ; he that like a subtle 

beast 
Lay couchant with his eyes upon the 

throne. 
Ready to spring, waiting a chance : 

for this 
He chill'd the popular praises of the 

With silent smiles of slow disparage- 

And tamper'd with the Lords of the 

White Horse, 
Heathen, the brood by Hengist left ; 

and sought 
To make disruption in the Table 

Round 
Of Arthur, and to splinter it into 

feuds 
Serving his traitorous end ; and all 

his aims 
Were sharpen'd by strong hate for 

Lancelot. 





ruinevere. 



Had been, their wot, a-maying and 

return'd, 
That Modred still in green, all ear 

Climb'd to the high top o£ the gar- 
den-wall 

To spy some secret scandal if he 
might. 

And saw the Queen who sat betwixt 
her best 

Enid, and lissome Vivien, of her 
court 

The wiliest and the worst; and more 
than this 

He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing 
by 

Spied where he couch'd, and as the 
gardener's hand 

Picks from the colewort a green cater- 
pillar, 

So from the high wall and the flower- 
ing grove 

Of grasses Lancelot pluck'd him by 
the heel. 

And cast him as a worm upon the 

But when he knew the Prince tho' 

marr'd with dust, 
He, reverencing king's blood in a bad 

man. 
Made such excuses as he might, and 

these 
Full knightly without scorn ; for in 

those days 
No knight of Arthur's noblest dealt 

in scorn ; 
But, if a man were halt or hunch'd, in 

him 
By those whom God had made full- 

limb'd and tall. 
Scorn was allow'd as part of his 

defect. 
And he was answer'd softly by the 

King 
And all his, Table. So Sir Lancelot 

holp 
To raise the Prince, who rising twice 

or thrice 
Full sharply smote his knees, and 

smiled, and went : 
ver after, the small violence done 
Rankled in him and rufHed all his 

heart. 





As the sharp wind tli 



But when Sir Lancelot told 
This matter to the Queen, at first she 

laugh'd 
Lightly, to think of Modred's dusty 

fall. 
Then shudder'd as the village wife 

who cries 
' I shudder, some one steps across my 

grave ; ' 
Then laugh'd again, but faintlier, for 

indeed 
She half-foresaw that he, the subtle 

beast. 
Would track her guilt until he found, 

and hers 
Would be for evermore a name of 



Henceforward rarely could she front 

in hall. 
Or elsewhere, Modred's narrow foxy 

face. 
Heart-hiding smile, and gray persist- 
ent eye : 
Henceforward too, the Powers that 

tend the soul, 
To help it from the death that cannot 

die. 
And save it even in extremes, began 
To vex and plague her. Many a time 

for hours. 
Beside the placid breathings of the 

King, 
In the dead night, grim faces came 

and went 
Before her, or a vague spiritual 

fear- 
Like to some doubtful noise of creak- 
ing doors. 
Heard by the watcher in a haunted 

house, 
That kee])s the rust of murder on the 

walls- 
Held her awake : or if she slept she 

dream'd 
An awful dream ; for then she seem'd 

to stand 
On some vast plain before a setting 





And from the sun there swiftly mac 

nt her 
A ghastly something, and its shado 



tHrn'd- 

1.1 ! ht 



touch'd her, and she 
broadening 
•d all the 



troni her feet, 
And blackening, swall 

land, and in it 
Far cities burnt, and with a cry she 

woke. 
And all this trouble did not pass but 

grew ; 
I the clear face of the guileless 



King, 




And trustful c 


curtesies of household 


life. 




Became her ba 


le ; and at the last she 



said, 
' O Lancelot, get thee hence to thine 

own land. 
For if thou tarry we shall meet again. 
And if we meet again, some evil 

chance 
Will make the smouldering scandal 

break and blaze 
Before the (leople, and our lord the 

King.' 
And Lancelot ever promised, but re- 



and met. Again 



main'd. 
And still thev i 

she said, 
' O Lancelot, if thou love me get thee 

hence.' 
And then they were agreed upon a 

night 
(When the good King should not be 

there) to meet 
And part for ever. Vivien, lurking, 

heard. 
She told Sir Modred. Passion-pale 

they met 
And greeted. Hands in hands, and 

eye to eye 
Low on the border of her couch they 

Stammering and staring. It was 
their last hour, 

A madness of farewells. And Mod- 
red brought 

His creatures to the basement of the 




For testin 

voi( 

' Traitor, . 




ny ; and crying with full 
ye are trapt at 



aroused 

Lancelot, who rushing outward lion- 
like 
Leapt on him, and hurl'd him head- 
long, and he fell 
Stunn'd, and his creatures took and 

bare him off. 
And all was still : then she, ' The end 

is come. 
And I am shamed for ever ; ' and he 

said, 
' Mine be the shame ; mine was the 

sin : but rise. 
And fly to my strong castle overseas : 
There will I hide thee, till my life shall 

end. 
There hold thee with my life against 

the world.' 
She answer'd, 'Lancelot, wilt thou 

hold me so .' 
Nay, friend, for we have taken our 

farewells. 
Would God that thou couldst hide 

me from myself ! 
Mine is the shame, for I was wife, and 

thou 
Unweddcd : yet rise now, and let us fly, 
For I will draw me into sanctuary, 
And bide my doom.' So Lancelot 

got her horse. 
Set her thereon, and mounted on his 



And then 



the divide 



There kiss'd, and parted weeping : for 

he past. 
Love-loyal to the least wish of the 

Queen, 
Back to his land; but she to Almes- 

bury 
Fled all night long by glimmering 

waste and weald. 
And heard the Spirits of the waste 

and weald 
Moan as she fled, or thought she 

heard them moan : 
.And in herself she moan'd 'Too late, 

too late!' 
Till in the cold wind that foreruns the 

morn. 





A blot in heaven, the Raven, flying 

high, 
Croak'd, and she thought, ' He spies a 

field of death; 
For now the Heathen of the Northern 

Sea, 
Lured by the crimes and frailties of 

the court, 
Begin to slay the folk, and spoil the 

land.' 

And when she came to Almesbury 
she spake 

There to the nuns, and said, ' Mine 
enemies 

Pursue me, but, O peaceful Sister- 
hood, 

Receive, and yield me sanctuary, nor 
ask 

Her name to whom ye yield it, till her 

To tell you : ' and her beauty, grace 

and power. 
Wrought as a charm upon them, and 

they spared 
To ask it. 

So the stately Queen abode 
For many a week, unknown, among 

the nuns ; 
Nor with them mi.\'d, nor told her 

name, nor sought. 
Wrapt in her grief, for housel or for 

shrift. 
But communed only with the little 

maid. 
Who pleased her with a babbling 

heedlessness 
Which often lured her from herself; 

This night, a rumor wildly blown about 
Came, "that Sir Modred had usurp'd 

the realm. 
And leagued him with the heathen, 

while the King 
Was waging war on Lancelot : then 

she thought, 
' With what a hate the people and 

the King 
Must hate me,' and bow'd down upon 

her hands 
Silent, until the little maid, who 

brook'd 





No silence, brake it, uttering ' Late ! 

so late ! 
What hour, I wonder, now?' and 

when she drew 
No answer, by and by began to hum 
An air the nuns had taught her ; ' Late, 

so late ! ' 
Which when she heard, the Queen 

look'd up, and said, 
' O maiden, if indeed ye list to sing. 
Sing, and unbind my heart that I may 

weep.' 
Whereat full willingly sang the little 



' Late, late, so late ! and dark the 

night and chill ! 
Late, late, so late I but we can enter 

still. 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter 



' No light had we : for that we do 

repent; 
And learning this, the bridegroom 

will relent. 
Too late, too late I ye cannot enter 

now. 

'No light: so late I and dark and 

chill the night! 
O let us in, that we may find the 

light! 
Too late, too late : ye cannot enter 

now. 



■Ha 



; heard the bridegroom 



O let us in, tho' late, to kiss his fee 
No, no, too late ! ye cannot en' 



So sang the novice, while full pas- 
sionately. 

Her head upon her hands, remember- 
ing 

Her thought when first she came, 

wept the sad Queen. "^^ 

Then said the little novice prattling 
to her, 

' O pray vou, noble lady, weep no 




Guinevere. 



But let my words, the words of one so 

small, 
\Vho knowing nothing knows but to 

obey. 
And if I do not there is penance 

given- 
Comfort your sorrows ; for they do 

not flow 
From evil done ; right sure am I of 

that, 
Who see your tender grace and state- 

liness. 
But weigh your sorrows with our lord 

the King's, 
And weighing find them less ; for 

gone is he 
To wage grim war against Sir Lance- 
lot there, 
Round that strong castle where he 

holds the Queen; 
And Modred whom he left in charge 

of all. 
The traitor— Ah sweet lady, the 

King's grief 
For his own self, and his own Queen, 

and realm. 
Must needs be thrice as great as any of 



Fori 



ik the saints, I 



grea 



For if there ever come a grief to me 
I cry my cry in silence, and have 

done. 
None knows it, and my tears have 

brought me good : 
But even were the griefs of little ones 
As great as those of great ones, yet 

this grief 
Is added to the griefs the great must 

bear, 
That howsoever much they may de- 
Silence, they cannot weep behind a 

cloud : 
As even here they talk at Almesbury 
About the good King and his wicked 

Queen, 
And were I such a King with such a 

Queen, 
Well might I wish to veil her wicked- 



But were I such a King, it could no 





Then to her own sad heart 

ter'd the Queen, 
' Will the child kill me with her i 

cent talk?' 
But openly she answer'd, ' Must not I 
If this false traitor have displaced his 

lord. 
Grieve with the common grief of al' 

the realm ? ' 



' Yea,' said the maid, ' this is all 

woman's grief. 
That she is woman, whose disloval 

life 
Hath wrought confusion in the Table 

Hound 
Which good King Arthur founded, 

years ago, 
With signs and miracles and wonders, 

there 
At Camelot, ere the coming of the 

Queen.' 

Then thought the Queen within 
herself again, 

' Will the child kill me with her fool- 
ish prate .' ' 

But openly she spake and said to 

' her, 

' O little maid, shut in by nunnery 
walls, 

What canst thou know of Kings and 
Tables Round, 

Or what of signs and wonders, but the 
signs 

And simple iniracles of thy nunnery .' ' 

To whom the little novice garru- 

' Yea, but I know : the land was full of 

signs 
And wonders ere the coming of the 

Queen. 
So said mv father, and himself was 

knight 
Of the great Table — at the founding of 

And rode thereto from Lyonnesse, and 

he said 
That as he rode, an hour or maybe 

twain 
After the sunset, down the coast, he 

heard 





Guinevere. 



Strange music, and he paused, and 

turning — there, 
All down the lonely coast of Lyon- 

nesse. 
Each with a beacon-star upon his 

And with a wild sea-light about his 

feet. 
He saw them — headland after head- 
land flame 
Far on into the rich heart of the west : 
And in the light the white mermaiden 

swam. 
And strong man-breasted things stood 

from the sea. 
And sent a deep sea-voice thro' all the 

land, 
To which the little elves of chasm and 

cleft 
Made answer, sounding like a distant 

horn. 
So said my father — yea, and further- 
Next morning, while he past the dim- 
lit woods, 
Himself beheld three spirits mad with 

joy 
Come dashing down on a tall wayside 

flower, 
That shook beneath them, as the this- 
tle shakes 
When three gray linnets wrangle for 

the seed : 
And still at evenings on before his 

horse 
The flickering fairy-circle wheel'd and 

broke 
Flying, and link'd again, and wheel'd 

and broke 
Flying, for all the land was full of 

life. 
And when at last he came to Came- 

lot, 
A wreath of airy dancers hand-in-hand 
.Swung round the lighted lantern of 

the hall ; 
And in the hall itself was such a feast 
had dream'd ; for every 

knight 
Had whatsoever meat he long'd for 

served 
By hands unseen ; and even as he 





Down in the cellars merry bloated 

things 
Shoulder'd the spigot, straddling on 

the butts 
While the wine ran : so glad were 

spirits and men 
Before the coming of the sinful 

Queen.' 

Then spake the Queen and some- 
what bitterly, 

'Were they so glad? ill prophets 
were they all. 

Spirits and men: could none of them 
foresee. 

Not even thy wise father with his signs 

And wonders, what has fall'n upon 
the realm ? ' 



To whom the 

again 
• Yea, one, 

ther s 
Full 



ce garrulously 

bard ; of whom my fa- 

y a noble war-song had he 



sung, 
Ev'n in the presence of an enemy s 

fleet. 
Between the steep cliff and the com- 
ing wave; 
And many a mystic lay of life and 

death 
Had chanted on the smoky mountain- 
tops. 
When round him bent the spirits of 

the hills 
With all their dewy hair blown back 

like flame : 
So said my father— and that night the 

bard 
Sang Arthur's glorious wars, and sang 

the King 
As wellnigh more than man, and 

raii'd at those 
Who cali'd him the false son of Gor- 

lois: 
For there was no man knew from 

whence he came ; 
But after tempest, when the long 

wave broke 
All down the thundering shores of 

Bude and Bos, 
There came a day as still as heaven, 

and then 





They found a naked child upon the 

sands 
Of dark Tintagil by the Cornish sea ; 
And that was Arthur; and they fos- 

ter'd him 
Till he bv miracle was approven 

King : 
And that his grave should be a mys- 
tery 
From all men, like his birth ; and could 

he find 
A woman in her womanhood as great 
As he was in his manhood, then, he 

sang, 
The twain together well might change 

the world. 
But even in the middle of his song 
He falter'd, and his hand fell from 



the ha 



reel'd, and 



fall'i 



But that they stay'd him up ; nor 

would he tell 
His vision ; but what doubt that he 

foresaw 
This evil work of Lancelot and the 

Queen ?' 

Then thought the Queen, ' Lo I they 
have set her on. 
Our simple-seeming Abbess and her 



d bow'd her 
crying, with 
.rrulity garru- 



To play upon me,' ai 

head nor sjDake. 
Whereat the novice 

clasp'd hands, 
Shame on her own g; 

lously. 
Said the good nuns would check her 

gadding tongue 
Full often, ' and, sweet lady, if I seem 
To vex an ear too sad to listen to 

me, 
Unmannerlv, with prattling and the 

tales' 
Which my good father told me, check 

Nor let me shame my father's mem- 
ory, one 

Of noblest manners, tho' himself 
would say 

Sir Lancelot had the noblest; and he 
died, 





Kill'd in 

And left me ; but of others who re- 

And of the two fiist-famed for cour- 

And pray you check me if I ask 

amiss — 
But pray you, which had noblest, 

while you moved 
Among them, Lancelot or our lord 

the King ? ' 

Then the pale Queen look'd up and 

answer'd her, 
' Sir Lancelot, as became a noble 

knight. 
Was gracious to all ladies, and the 

same 
In open battle or the tilting-field 
Forbore his own advantage, and the 

King 
In open battle or the tilting-field 
Forbore his own advantage, and these 

two 
Were the most nobly-manner'd men 

of all ; 
For manners are not idle, but the 

Of loyal nature, and of noble mind.' 

' Yea,' said the maid, ' be manners 

such fair fruit ? 
Then Lancelot's needs must be a 

thousand-fold 
Less noble, being, as all rumor runs. 
The most disloyal friend in all the 

world.' 



To which : 

the Qi 

'O closed a 



jrnful answer made 
by narrowing nun- 



What knowest thou of the world, and 

all its lights 
And shadows, all the wealth and all 

the woe } 
If ever Lancelot, that most noble 

knight. 
Were for one hour less noble than 

himself. 
Pray for him thai he scape the doom 

of fire. 





Guinevere. 



' Yea,' said the little novice, ' I pray 

for both ; 
But I should all as soon believe that 

his, 
Sir Lancelot's, were as noble as the 

King's, 
As I could think, sweet lady, yours 

would be 
Such as they are, were you the sinful 

Queen.' 

So she, like many another babbler, 

Whom she would soothe, and harm'd 

where she would heal ; 
For here a sudden flush of wrathful 

heat 
Fired all the pale face of the Queen, 

who cried, 
' Such as thou art be never maiden 

more 
For ever! thou their tool, set on to 

lilague 
And play upon, and harry me, petty 



Froi 


1 Guinevere, 


aghast the maiden 


Wh 


te as her vei 
the Queen 


, and stood before 


As 


treinulouslv 
beach 


as foam upon the 


Stan 


dsmawind, 


ready to break and 


And 


when the Queen had added 'Get 




thee hence. 




Flee 


frighted. Then that other left 




alone 




Sigh 


d, and bega 

again, 
ng in herself 


1 to gather heart 


Sayi 


'The simple, fear- 




ful child 




Meant nothinc;, b 


it my own too-fear- 




ful guilt, 




Smi 


)ler than any 


child, betrays itself. 


But 


help me, hea 
pent. 


ven, for surely I re- 


For 


what is true 
thought- 


repentance but in 




bought to think 

de the past so pleas- 

ever to see him 



Not ev'n in ii 

again 
The sins that 

ant to u 
And I have swoi 

more, 
To see him more. 



And ev'n in saying this. 
Her memory from old habit of the 

Went slipping back upon the golden 

days 
In which she saw him first, when 

Lancelot came, 
Reputed the best knight and goodliest 

man. 
Ambassador, to lead her to his lord 
Arthur, and led her forth, and far 

ahead 
Of his and her retinue moving, they. 
Rapt in sweet talk or lively, all on 

love 
And sport and tilts and pleasure, (for 

the time 
Was maytime, and as yet no sin was 

dream 'd,) 
Rode under groves that look'd a par- 
adise 
Of blos.som, over sheets of hvacinth 
That seem'd the heavens upbreakiug 

thro' the earth, 
And on from hill to hill, and every 

day 
Beheld at noon in some delicious dale 
The silk pavilions of King Arthur 

raised 
For brief repast or afternoon repose 
By couriers gone before ; and on 

again. 
Till yet once more ere set of sun they 

saw 
The Dragon of the great Pendragon- 

ship, 
That crown'd the state pavilion of the 

King, 
Blaze by the rushing brook or silent 



But when the Que 
such a trance. 
And moving thro' the past uncon- 
sciously. 





Guinevere. 



Came to that point where first she 

saw the King 
Ride toward her from the city, sigh'd 

to find 
Her journey done, glanced at him, 

thought him cold, 
High, self-contain'd, and passionless, 

not like him, 
' Not like my Lancelot ' — while she 

brooded thus 
And grew half-guilty in her thoughts 

again, 
There rode an armed warrior to the 

A murmuring whisper thro' the nun- 
nery ran. 
Then on a sudden a cry, 'The King.' 

She sat 
Stiff-stricken, listening; but when 

armed feet 
Thro' the long gallery from the outer 

doors 
Rang coming, prone from off her seat 

she fell, 
And grovell'd with her face against 

the floor : 
There with her milkwhite arms and 

shadowy hair 
She made her face a darkness from 

the King : 
And in the darkness heard his armed 

feet 
Pause by her ; then came silence, then 

a voice, 
Monotonous and hollow like a Ghost's 
Denouncing judgment, but tho' 

changed, the King's : 

' Liest thou here so low, the child 

of one 
I honor'd, happy, dead before thy 

shame ? 
Well is it that no child is born of thee. 
The children born of thee are sword 

and fire. 
Red ruin, and the breaking up of 

The craft of kindred and the Godless 

hosts 
Of heathen swarming o'er the North- 





The mightiest of my knights, abode 

Have everywhere about this land of 
Christ 

In twelve great battles ruining over- 
thrown. 

And knowest thou now from whence I 
come — from him. 

From waging bitter war with him : and 
he. 

That did not shun to smite me in 
worse way, 

Had yet that grace of courtesy in him 



lift hi; 



eft. 
He spared tc 

King 
Who made him knight : but many a 

knight was slain ; 
And many more, and all his kith and 

Clave to him, and abode in his own 

land. 
And many more when Modred raised 

revolt. 
Forgetful of their troth and fealty, 

clave 
To Modred, and a remnant stavs 

with me. 
And of thii 

part, 



leav 



To guard thee in the wild hour com- 
ing on. 

Lest but a hair of this low head be 
harm'd. 

Fear not : thou shall be guarded till 
my death. 

Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies 

Have err'd not, that I march to meet 
my doom. 

Thou hast not made my life so sweet 

That I the King should greatly care 

For thou hast spoilt the purpose of 

my life. 
Bear with me for the last time while I 

show, 
Ev'n for thy sake, the sin which thou 

hast sinn'd. 
For when the Roman left us, and 

their law 





Relax'd its hold upon us, and the 



Were fill'd with rapine, here and there 

a deed 
Of prowess done redress'd a random 

But I was first of all the kings who 

d rew 
The knighthood-errant of this realm 

and all 
The realms together under me, their 

Head, 
In that fair Order of my Table Round, 
A glorious company, the flower of 

To serve as model for the mighty 

world 
And be the fair beginning of a time. 
'Pi made them lay their hands in mine 

and swear 
To reverence the King, as if he were 
Their conscience, and their conscience 

as their King, 
To break the heathen and uphold the 

Christ, 
To ride abroad redressing human 



To 


wrongs, 
peak no si 


ander 


no, no 


r listei 


to 


To 

Tol 
To 


lonor his 

God's, 
ead sweet 
ove one n 


laiden 


word 

n pures 
only, 


as if 

t chas 
cleave 


his 
to 



And worship her by years of noble 

deeds. 
Until they won her; for indeed I knew 
Of no more subtle master under 

heaven 
Than is the maiden passion for a 

maid, 
Not only to keep down the base in 



3ut teach high thought, and 



able 




5, and the desire of 

th, and all that makes 

hrove before I wedded 

I mine helpmate, one to 




My purpose and rejoicing in my joy." 
Then came thy shameful sin with 

Lancelot ; 
Then came the sin of Tristram and 

Isolt; 
Then others, following these my 

mightiest knights, 
And drawing foul ensample from fair 

Sinn'd also, till the loathsome oppo- 

Of all my heart had destined did ob- 
tain. 
And all thro' thee ! so that this life of 

mine 
I guard as God's high gift from scathe 

and wrong. 
Not greatly care to lose ; but rather 

think 
How sad it were for Arthur, should 

he live, 
To sit once more within his lonely 

hall. 
And miss the wonted number of my 

knights. 
And miss to hear high talk of noble 

deeds 
As in the golden daj's before thy 

For which of us, who miglit be left, 

could speak 
Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance 

at thee } 
And in thy bowers of Camelot or of 

Usk 
Thy shadow still would glide from 

room to room. 
And I should evermore be vext with 

thee 
In hanging robe or vacant ornament. 
Or ghostly footfall echoing on the 

For think not, tho' thou wouldst not 

love thy lord. 
Thy lord hast wholly lost his love for 

thee, 
I am not made of so slight elements. 
Yet must I leave thee, woman, to thy 

shame. 
I hold that man the worst of public 

foes 
Who either for his own or children's 

sake, 





Guinevere. 



To save his blood from scandal, lets 

the wife 
Whom he knows false, abide and rule 

the house : 
For being thro' his cowardice allow'd 
Her station, taken everywhere for 

pure. 
She like a new disease, unknown to 

men, 
Creeps, no precaution used, among 

the crowd, 
Makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, 

and saps 
The fealty of our friends, and stirs the< 

pulse 
With devil's leaps, and poisons half 

the young. 
Worst of the worst were that man he 

that reigns ! 
Better the King's waste hearth and 

aching heart 
Than thou reseated in thy place of 

light, 
The mockery of my people, and their 

bane.' 

He paused, and in the pause she 
crept an inch 

Nearer, and laid her hands about his 
feet. 

Far off a solitary trumpet blew. 

Then waiting by the doors the war- 
horse neigh'd 

As at a friend's voice, and he spake 
again : 

' Yet think not that I come to urge 
thy crimes, 
I did not come to curse thee, Guine- 

I, whose vast pity almost makes me die 
To see thee, laying there thy golden 

head. 
My pride in happier summers, at my 

feet. 
The wrath which forced my thoughts 

on that fierce law. 
The doom of treason and the flaming 

death, 
(When first I learnt thee hidden here) 



weigh'd thy 



% 





Too wholly true to dream 

thee. 
Made my tears burn — is also past — in 

part. 
And all is past, the sin is sinn'd, 

and I, 
Lo ! I forgive thee, as Eternal God 
Forgives : do thou for thine own soul 

the rest. 
But how to take last leave of all I 
oved ? 

golden hair, with which I used to 
play 

Not knowing ! O imperial-moulded 

form, 
And beauty such as never woman wore, 
Until it came a kingdom's curse with 

thee — 

1 cannot touch thy lips, they are not 

But Lancelot's : nay, they never were 

the King's. 
I cannot take thy hand ; that too is 

flesh. 
And in the flesh thou hast sinn'd ; and 

mine own flesh. 
Here looking down on thine polluted, 

cries 
" I loathe thee : " yet not less, O 

Guinevere, 
For I was ever virgin save for thee. 
My love thro' flesh hath wrought into 

my life 
So far, that my doom is, I love thee 

Let no man dream but that I love 



thou purif 



thv 



Perchance, and 

soul. 
And so thou lean on our fair father 

Christ, 
Hereafter in that world where all are 

pure 
We two may meet before high God, 

and thou 
Wilt spring to me, and claim me 

thine, and know 
I am thine husband — not a smaller 

Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave 

me that, 
I charge thee, my last hope. Now 

must I hence. 





ck night I hear the 

blow : 

me their King to lead 

hat great battle in the 



Where I must strike against the man 

they call 
My sister's son — no kin o£ mine, who 

leagues 
With Lords of the White Horse, 

heathen, and knights. 
Traitors — and strike him dead, and 

meet myself 
Death, or I know not what mysterious 

doom. 
And thou remaining here wilt learn 

the event; 
But hither shall I never come again, 
Never lie by thy side; see thee no 

Farewell!' 

And while she grovell'd at his feet. 
She felt the King's breath wander 

o'er her neck, 
And in the darkness o'er her fallen 

head. 
Perceived the waving of his hands 

that blest. 

Then, listening till those armed 

steps were gone, 
Rose the pale Queen, and in her 

anguish found 
The casement : ' peradventure,' so she 

thought, 
' If I might see his face, and not 

be seen.' 
And lo, he sat on horseback at the 

door! 
And near him the sad nuns with each 

a light 
Stood, and he gave them charge 

about the Queen, 
To guard and foster her for ever- 
more. 
And while he spake to these his helm 

; lower'd. 
To which for crest the golden dragon 

clung 
Of Britain ; so she did not .see the 

face, 





Which then 



Wet with the 

the lights. 
The Dragon of the great Pendragon- 

ship 
Blaze, making all the night a steam of 

fire. 
And even then he turn'd ; and more 



The moony 
King, 
Who seem'd the ph; 



rolling round the 
of a Giant 



Enwound him fold by fold, and made 

him gray 
And grayer, till himself became as 



Then she stretch'd out her arms and 

cried aloud 
' Oh Arthur ! ' there her voice brake 

suddenly, 
Then — as a stream that spouting 

from a cliff 
Fails in mid air, but gathering at the 

base 
Re-makes itself, and flashes down the 

vale — 
Went on in passionate utterance : 

' Gone — mv lord I' 
Gone thro' mv sin to slay and to be 

slain! 
And he forgave me, and I could not 

speak. 
Farewell? I should have answer'd 

his farewell. 
His mercy choked me. Gone, my 

lord the King, 
My own true lord I how dare I call 

him mine.' 
The shadow of another cleaves to me. 
And makes me one pollution : he, the 

King, 
Call'd me polluted : shall I kill my- 

What help in that? I cannot kill 
my sin. 

If soul be soul ; nor can I kill ray- 
shame ; 






^T1 1 1 -> 


<> \ V- m 


1 






Guinevere. 343 


No, nor bv living can I live it down. 


Will tell the King I love him tho' so 


- 


The davs will grow to weeks, the 


late ? m 






weeks to months. 


Now— ere he goes to the great Battle ? Ill 




«^ The months will add themselves and 


none : «Aj 




make the years, 


Mvself must tell him in that purer 




The years will roll into the centuries, 


- life. 




And mine will ever be a name of 


But now it were too daring. Ah my 
God, 




I must not dwell on that defeat of 


What might I not have made of thy 




fame. 


fair world. 




Let the world be; that is but of 


Had I but loved thy highest creature 




the world ; 


here ? 




What else? what hope? I think 


It was my duty to have loved the 




there was a hope. 


highest : 




Except he mock'd me when he spake 


It surely was my profit had I known: 




of hope ; 


It would have been my pleasure had 




His hope he call'd it ; but he never 






mocks, 


We needs must love the highest when 




For mockery is the fume of little 


we see it. 




hearts. 


Not Lancelot, nor another.' 




And blessed be the King, who hath 






forgiven 


Here her hand 




My wickedness to him, and left me 


Grasp'd, made her vail her eyes : she 




hope 


look'd and saw 




That in mine own heart I can live 


The novice, weeping, suppliant, and 




down sin 


said to her. 




And be his mate hereafter in the 


' Yea, little maid, for am / not for- 




heavens 


given ? ' 




Before high God. Ah great and gen- 


Then glancing up beheld the holy 




tle lord, 


nuns 




Who wast, as is the conscience of a 


All round her, weeping; and her 
heart was loosed 




Among his warring senses, to thy 


Within her, and she wept with these 




knights— 


and said, . 




To whom mv false voluptuous pride. 






that took 


'Ye know me then, that wicked 




Full easilv all impressions from 


one, who broke 




belo'w. 


The vast design and purpose of the 




Would not look up, or half-despised 


King. 




the height 


shut me round with narrowing 




To which I would not or I could not 


nunnery-walls, 




climlj— 


Meek maidens, from the voices cry- 




I thought I could not breathe in that 


ing "shame." 




fine air 


I must not scorn myself : he loves me 




That pure severitv of perfect light— 


still. 




I vearn'd for warmth and color which 


Let no one dream but that he loves 




■ I found 


me still. 




In Lancelot— now I see thee what 


So let me, if you do not shudder at cyi 






thou art. 


me. 








Thou art the highest and most human 
too, 


Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with 








Not Lancelot, nor another. Ls there 


Wear black and white, and be a nun 






% 




like you. 


\ 




a~i VI I \ M'lv 








The Passing of Arthur. 



Fast with your fasts, not feasting with 



Grieve with your griefs, not grieving 

at your joys, 
But not rejoicing ; mingle with your 

Pray and be pray'd for; lie before 

your shrines ; 
Do each low office of your holy 

house ; 
Walk your dim cloister, and distribute 

dole 
To poor sick people, richer in His eyes 
Who ransom'd us and haler too than 



And 1 



hea 



their loathsome hurts and 
mine own ; 
;ar out in almsdeed and in 



And so wea 

prayer 
The sombre close of that voluptuous 

day, 

End of ' Th. 




Which wrought the ruin of 
the King.' 



She said : they took 1 

selves ; and she 
Still hoping, fearing ' is it yet too 

late?' 
Dwelt with them, till in time their 

Abbess died. 
Then she, for her good deeds and her 

pure life, 
And for the power of ministration in 

her, 
And likewise for the high rank she 

had borne. 
Was chosen Abbess, there, an Abbess, 

lived 
For three brief years, and there, an 

Abbess, past 
To where beyond these voices there is 

peace. 
Round Tablt-: 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 
That story which the bold Sir Bedi- 
eft of all the 



First made and latest 

knights. 
Told, when the man was no more than 

a voice 
In the white winter of his age, to 

those 
\Vith whom he dwelt, new faces, other 

minds. 

For on their march to westward, 
Bedivere, 

Who slowly paced among the slum- 
bering host, 

Heard in his tent the moanings of the 
King : 

' I found Him in the shining of the 

rk'd Him in the flowering of His 
fields, 
But in His ways with men I find Him 




lid now I pass and 



O me I for why is all around us here 

As if some lesser god had made the 
world, 

But had not force to shape it as he 
would, 

Till the High God behold it from be- 
yond. 

And enter it, and make it beautiful .> 

Or else as if the world were wholly 
fair. 

But that these eyes of men are dense 
and dim. 

And have not power to sec it as 

Perchance, because we see not to the 

close ; — 
For I, being simple, thought to work 

His will. 
And have but stricken with the sword 

in vain; 
And all whereon I lean'd 

friend 
Is traitor to my peace, 

realm 
Reels back into the bi 





The Passing of Arthur. 



forgotten me 
St — I pass b 



My God, thou hast 
my death : 

Nay — God my Chr 
shall not die.' 



Then, ere that last weird battle in 

the west, 
There came on Arthur sleeping, 

Gawain kill'd 
In Lancelot's war, the ghost of Gawain 

blown 
Along a wandering wind, and past his 



We 



shrilling 
delight! 



Hollow, hollow all 
hou shalt pass 



Hail, Kin_ 

away. 
Farewell ! there is an isle of rest for 

thee. 
And I am blown along a wandering 

wind, 
And hollow, hollow, hollow all de- 
light.' 
And fainter onward, like wild birds 

that change 
Their season in the night and wail 

their way 
From cloud to cloud, down the long 

wind the dream 
Shrill'd; but in going mingled with 

dim cries 
Far in the moonlit haze among the 

hills. 
As of some lonely city sack'd by night, 
When all is lost, and wife and child 



ith' 



Pass to new lords ; and Arthur woke 

and call'd, 
'Who spake.' A dream. G light 

upon the wind, 
Thine, Gawain, was the voice— are 

these dim cries 
Thine .' or doth all that haunts the 



ild 



Mourn, kn 



ill go along with 



This heard the bold Sir Bedivere 
and spake : 
' O me, my King, let pass whatever 



less glamour of 





Hut in their stead th) 

cling 
To all high places 

cloud 
For ever : but as ye 

pass. 
Light was Gawain in 

death 
Is Gawain, for the gh 



And care not thou for dreams from 

him, but rise — 
I hear the steps of Modred in the 

And with him many of thy people, and 

knights 
Once thine, whom thou hast loyed, 

but grosser grown 
Than heathen, spitting at their vows 

and thee. 
Right well in heart they know thee for 



the Ki 



Arise, go forth and conqu 



; of old 



Whereto 



And brake the petty kings, and fought 

with Rome, 
Or thrust the heathen from the 

Roman wall. 
And shook him thro' the north. Ill 

doom is mine 
To war against my people and my 

knights. 
The king who fights his people fights 

himself. 
And they my knights, who loved me 

once, the stroke 
That strikes them dead is as my death 



Y 
Thro 



let 



s hence, and find or feel a 
blind haze, which ever since 



One lying in the dust at Almesbury, 
Hath' folded in the passes of "the 
world.' 

Then rose the King and moved his 
host by night. 





The Passing of Arthur. 



And ever push'd Sir Modred, league 

by league. 
Back to the sunset bound of Lyon- 

nesse — 
A land of old upheaven from the 

abyss 
By fire, to sink into the abyss again ; 
Where fragments of forgotten peoples 

dwelt. 
And the long mountains ended in a 

Of ever-shifting sand, and far away 
The phantom circle of a moaning sea. 
There the pursuer could pursue no 

more, 
And he that fled no further fly the 

King; 
And there, that day when the great 

light of heaven 
Burn'd at his lowest in the rolling 

year, 
On the waste sand by the waste sea 

they closed. 
Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a 

fight 
Like this last, dim, weird battle of the 

A deathwhite mist slept over sand 

and sea : 
Whereof the chill, to him who 

breathed it, drew 
Down with his blood, till all his heart 

was cold 
With formless fear; and ev'n on Ar- 
thur fell 
Confusion, since he saw not whom he 

fought. 
For friend and foe were shadows in 

the mist, 
And friend slew friend not knowing 

whom he slew ; 
And some had visions out of golden 

youth, 
And some beheld the faces of old 

ghosts 
Look in upon the battle ; and in the 

mist 
Was mauy a noble deed, many a base. 
And chance and craft and strength in 

single fights, 
And ever and anon with host to host 
Shocks, and the splintering spear, the 

hard mail hewn, 





Shield-breakings, and the clash of 

brands, the crash 
Of battleaxes on shatter'd helm.s, and 

shrieks 
After the Christ, of those who falling 

down 
Look'd up for heaven, and only saw 

the mist ; 
And shouts of heathen and the traitor 

knights. 
Oaths, insult, filth, and monstrous 

blasphemies, 
Sweat, writhings, anguish, laboring of 

the lungs 
In that close mist, and cryings for the 

light. 
Moans of the dying, and voices of the 

dead. 



Of suffering, silence follows, or thro' 

death 
Or deathlike swoon, thus overall that 

Save for some whisper of the seething 

seas, 
A dead hush fell; but when the dolor- 
Grew drearier toward twilight falling, 

came 
A bitter wind, clear from the North, 

and blew 
The mist aside, and with that wind the 

tide 
Rose, and the pale King glanced 

across the field 
Of battle : but no man was moving 

there ; 
Nor any cry of Christian heard 

thereon, 
Nor yet of heathen ; only the wan 

wave 
Brake in among dead faces, to and 

fro 
Swaying the helpless hands, and up 

and down 
Tumbling the hollow helmets of the 

fallen, 
And shiver'd brands that once had 

fought with Rome, 
And rolling far along the gloomy 

shores 





The Passing of Arthur. 



of days of old and da 



Then spake King Arthur to Sir 

Bedivere, 
And whiter than the mist that all day 

long 
Had held the field of battle was the 

King: 

' Hearest thou this great voice that 
shakes the world, 
And wastes the narrow realm where- 

And beats upon the faces of the dead. 
My dead, as tho' they had not died for 

O Bedivere, for on my heart hath 

fall'n 
Confusion, till I know not what I 

am. 
Nor whence I am, nor whether I be 

King. 
Behold, I seem but King among the 

dead.' 

Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere: 

' My King, 
King everywhere ! and so the dead 

have kings, 
There also will I worship thee as 

King. 
Yet still thy life is whole, and still I 

live 
Who love thee; but who hates thee, 

he that brought 
The heathen back among us, yonder 

stands, 
Mudred, unharm'd, the traitor of 

thine house.' 

Then spake the King : ' My house 
hath been my doom. 
But call not thou this traitor of my 

Who hath but dwelt beneath one roof 

with me. 
My house are rather they who sware 

my vows. 
Yea, even while they brake them, 

own'd me King. 
And well for thee, saying in my dark 





When all the purport of my thr 

hath faii'd, 
That quick or dead thou boldest me 

for King. 
King am I, whatsoever be their cry; 
And one last act of kinghood shall 

thou see 
Yet, ere I pass.' And uttering this 

the King 
Made at the man : then Modred smote 

his liege 
Hard on that, helm which many a 

heathen sword 
Had beaten thin ; while Arthur at one 

blow. 
Striking the last stroke with E.xcali- 

bur. 



So all day long the noise of battle 
roll'd 
Among the mountains by the winter 

Until King Arthur's Table, man by 

Lyonnesse about their 



Had fall'n 

lord. 
King Arthur. Then, because his 

wound was deep. 
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, 
And bore him to a chapel nigh the 

field, 
A broken chancel with a broken cross. 
That stood on a dark strait of barren 



L)n 



iide lay the Ocean, and 



Then spake King Arthur to Sir 

Bedivere : 
' The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous 

knights 
Whereof this world holds record. 

Such a sleep 
They sleep — the men I loved. I think 

that we 
Shall never more, at any future time. 
Delight our souls with talk of knightly 

deeds. 





7'Iie Fasswg of Arthur. 



Walking about the gardens and the 

halls 
0£ Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I 



Tho- 


made- 
Merlin sware that 


I should 


Toru 


comeagani 
le once more ; 

be, be, 
so deeply smit 


but, let 
en thro 


what will 
the helm 



That without help I cannot last till 

morn. 
Thou therefore take my brand Excali- 

bur, 
Which was my pride : for thou re- 

memberest how 
In those old days, one summer noon, 

Rose up from out the bosom of the 

lake, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful. 
Holding the sword— and how I row'd 

across 
And took it, and have worn it, like a 

king; 
And, wheresoever I am sung or told 
In aftertime, this also shall be known: 
But now delay not : take Excalibur, 
And fling him far into the middle 

Watch what thou seest, and lightly 
bring me word.' 

To him replied the bold Sir Uedi- 

vere : 
' It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee 

thus, 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the 

helm— 
A little thing may harm a wounded 

Yet I thy hest will all perform at 

full. 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring 

thee word.' 



g, from the ruin'd shrine he 
slept 
the moon athwart the place of 




the mighty bones of an 




Old knights, and over them the sea- 
wind sang 

Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, 
stepping down 

By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed 
rock, 

Came on the shining levels of the lake. 

There drew he forth the brand E.x- 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter 

Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, 
ran forth 

And sparkled keen with frost against 
the hilt: 

For all the haft twinkled with diamond 
sparks. 

Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth- 
work 

Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so 
long 

That both his eyes were dazzled as he 
stood, 

This way and that dividing the swift 



In act to throw : but 



the 



Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 
There in the many-knotted waterflags, 
That whistled stiff and dry about the 

marge. 
So strode he back slow to the 

wounded King. 



Then spake King 


Arthur 


to Sir 


Bedivere : 






'Ilast thou perforn 


'd mv 


mission 


which I gave .' 






What is it thou hast 


seen .' 


or what 


hast heard ? ' 






And answer made the bold Sir Bed- 


'I heard the ripple 


washing 


in the 


reeds, 






And the wild water 


lappmg 


on the 5 


crag.' 






To whom reijlied 


King 


Arthur, 


faint and pale : 






'Thou hast betrav'd 


thv '■ ' 


.re »T,d 


thv name, 




M 




The Passing of Arthur. 



ng true answer, as be- 

Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : 
For surer sign had foUow'd, either 

hand, 
Or voice, or else a motion of the 

mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to 

Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go 

again, 
As thou art lief and dear, and do the 

thing 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring 

me word.' 

Then went Sir Bedivere the second 

Across the ridge, and paced beside 

the mere. 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in 

thought ; 
But when he saw the wonder of the 

hilt. 
How curiously and strangely chased, 

he smote 
His palms together, and he cried 

aloud : 

' And if indeed I cast the brand 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy 

Should thus be lost forever from the 

earth. 
Which might have pleased the eyes of 

many men. 
What good should follow this, if this 

were done .' 
What harm, undone.' Deep harm to 

disobey. 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king 

An act unprofitable, against himself? 
The King is sick, and knows not 

what he does. 
What record, or what relic of my 

lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty 

ath 
And rumors of a doubt ? But were 

this kept. . 




Stored in some treasure-house of 

mighty kings. 
Some one might show it at a joust of 

Saying, " King Arthur's sword, E.xcal- 



Nine years she wrought it, sitting in 

the deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills." 
So might some old man speak in the 

after-time 
To all the people, winning reverence. 
But now much honor and much fame 

were lost.' 



So spake he, clouded 



the 



And hid Excalibur the second 

And so strode back slow 

wounded King. 



Then spoke King Arthur, breathing 
heavily : 
'What is it thou hast seen? or what 
hast heard ? ' 

And ans%vermade the bold Sir Bed- 

' I heard the water lapping on the 

crag, 
And the long ripple washing in the 

reeds.' 

To whom replied King Arthur, 

much in wrath : 
'Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is 

me ! 
Authority forgets a dying king, 
Laid widow'd of the power in his eve 
That bow'd the will. 1 see thee what 

thou art. 
For thou, the latest-left of all my 

knights. 
In whom should meet the offices of 



all. 



for the 



Thou wouldst betr.i_ 

precious hilt; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the 





The Passing of Arthur. 



Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 
And the third time may prosper, get 

thee hence : 
But, if thou spare to iiing Excalibur, 
I will arise and slay thee with my 

hands.' 

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, 
and ran, 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, 

Among the bulrush beds, and clutch'd 

the sword. 
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. 

The great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendor of 

the moon, 
And flashing round and round, and 

whirl'd in an arch. 
Shot like a streamer of the northern 

morn, 
Seen where the moving isles of winter 

shock 
By night, with noises of the Northern 

Sea. 
So fiash'd and fell the brand Excal- 

But ere he dipt the surface, rose an 

Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 

And caught him by the hilt, and 
brandish'd him 

Three times, and drew him under in 
the mere. 

And lightly went the other to the 
King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing 

thicker breath : 
' Now see I by thine eyes that this is 

done. 
Speak out : what is it thou hast heard, 

or seen ? ' 

And answer made the bold Sir 

Bedivere : 
' Sir' King, I closed mine eyelids, lest 

the gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never 

saw. 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I 

die. 




Not tho' I li- 



three 




So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, 

wheeling him ; 
But when I look'd again, behold an 

Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 

That caught him by the hilt, and 
brandish'd him 

Three times, and drew him under in 
the mere.' 

And answer made King Arthur, 

breathing hard : 
'My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I 

were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive 

my weight, 
And bear me to the margin ; yet I 



So saying.from the pavement he half 

rose, 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his 

arm, 
And looking wistfully with wide blue 

eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears. 
And would have spoken, but he found 

not words ; 
Then took with care, and kneeling on 

one knee. 
O'er both his shoulders drew the lan- 
guid hands, 
And rising bore him thro' the place of 

tombs. 

But, as he walk'd, King Arthur 

panted hard. 
Like one that feels a nightmare on 

his bed 
When all the house is mute. So 

sigh'd the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, 

' Quick, quick ! 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die.' 
But the other .swiftly strode from 

ridge to ridge, 





The Passing of Arthur. 



Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a 

cry 
Before. His own thought drove him 

like a goad. 
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy 

caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left 

and right 
The bare black cliff clang'd round 

him, as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that 

rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed 

heels — 
And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake. 
And the long glories of the winter 



Dark 



;avv they how there hove a 

sky barge, 

I funeral scarf from stem to 



Beneath them; and descending they 

were ware 
That all the decks were dense with 

stately forms, 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a 

dream — by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold : 

and from them rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling 



All night in a waste laud, where no 

one comes. 
Or hath come, since the making of the 



Th( 



ur'd Arthur, ' Place me 

in the barge." 
So to the barge they came. There 

those three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the 

King, and wept. 
But she, that rose the tallest of them 



And fairest, laid his head upon her 





And loosed the shatter'd casque, and 
chafed his hands. 

And call'd him by his name, complain- 
ing loud. 

And dropping bitter tears against a 
brow 

Striped with dark blood: for all his 
face was white 

And colorless, and like the wither'd 

Smote by the fresh beam of the 

springing east ; 
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd 

with drops 
Of onset ; and the light and lustrous 

curls — 
That made his forehead like a rising 

sun 
High from the dais-throne — were 

parch'd with dust ; 
Or, clotted into points and hanging 

loose, 
Mi.\'d with the knightly growth that 

fringed his lips. 
So like a shatter'd column lay the 



Not like 



vho, with lance 



From spur to plume a star of tourna- 
ment. 

Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and 
charged 

Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bed- 

ivere : 
' Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall 

I go.' 
Where shall I hide my forehead and 

my eyes? 
For now I see the true old times are 

dead, 
When every morning brought a noble 

chance. 
And every chance brought out a noble 

knight. 
Such times have been not since the 

light that led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole Round Table is 

dissolved 
Which was an image of the mighty 

world. 










K~i¥=^=¥^ 


I \ \ W>s 




r 


352 T/u- rassiii^ 


of Arthur. 


a 


And I, the last, go forth companion- 


And bowery hollows crown'd with 




less, 


summer sea. 








And the days darken round me, and 


Where I will heal me of my grievous 








«^ the vears. 


wound.' <^ 






Anions; new men, strange faces, other 








minds.' 


So said he, and the barge with oar 
and sail 






And slowly answer'd Arthur from 


Moved from the brink, like some full- 






the barge : 


breasted swan 






/ 'The old order changeth, yieldhig 
place to new. 


That, fluting a wild carol ere her 






death, 






And God fulfils himself in many ways, 


Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes 






Lest one good custom should corrupt 


the flood 






the world. 


With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir 






Comfort thyself: what comfort is in 


Bedivere 






me?' 


Revolving many memories, till the 






I have lived my life, and that which I 


hull 






have done 


Look'd one black dot against the 






May He within himself make pure 1 


verge of dawn, 






but thou, 


And on the mere the wailing died 






If thou shouldst never see my face 


away. 






Pray for my soul. More things are 


But when that moan had past for 






wrought by prayer 


evermore. 






Than this world dreams of. Where- 


The stillness of the dead world's win- 






fore, let thy voice 


ter dawn 






Rise like a fountain for me night and 


Amazed him, and he groan'd, ' The 






day. 


King is gone.' 






For what are men better than sheep 


And therewithal came on him the 






or goats 


weird rhyme. 






That nourish a blind life within the 


' From the great deep to the great 






brain. 


deep he goes.' 






If, knowing God, they lift not hands 








of prayer 


Whereat he slowly turn'd and 






Both for themselves and those who 


slowly clomb 






call them friend ? 


The last hard footstep of that iron 






For so the whole round earth is every 


crag ; 






way 


Thence mark'd the black hull moving 






Bound by gold chains about the feet 


yet, and cried. 






of God. > 


' He passes to be King among the 






But now farewell. I am going a long 


dead, 






way 


And after healing of his grievous 






With these thou seest— if indeed I 
go 


wound 
He comes again ; but— if he come no 






(For all my mind is clouded with a 


more — 






doubt)- 


me, be yon dark Queens in yon 

black boat, „ 






To the island-valley of Avilion; 






^ Where falls not hail, or rain, or any 


Who shriek'd and wail'd, the three ,T, 






_ 


:snow, 


whereat we gazed 


. 








Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it 


On that high day, when, clothed with 










lies 
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with 


living light. 
They stood before his throne in si- 








^; 


orchard lawns 

Tl 1 1 ^ 


lence, friends 


;? 




1 ] 




To the Queen. 



Of Arthur, who should help him at his 
need ? ' 

Then from the dawn it seem'd there 

came, but faint 

As from beyond the limit of the world, 

Like the last echo born of a great cry, 

Sounds, as if some fair city were one 

Around a king returning from his 
Thereat once more he moved about. 




Ev'n to the highest he could climb, 

and saw. 
Straining his eyes beneath an arch of 

hand, 
Or thought he saw, the speck that 

bare the King, 
Down that long water opening on the 

deep 
Somewhere far off, pass on and on, 

and go 
From less to less and vanish into 

light. 
And the new sun rose bringing the 

new year. 



TO THE QUEEN. 



O LOYAL to the royal in thyself, 
And loyal to thy land, as this to 

thee 

Bear witness, that rememberable day. 
When, pale as yet, and fever-worn, 

the Prince 
Who scarce had pluck'd his flickering 

life again 
From halfway down the shadow of 

the grave, 
Past with thee thro' thy people and 

And London roU'd one tide of joy 

thro' all 
Her trebled millions, and loud leagues 

of man 
And welcome ! witness, too, the si- 

The prayer of many a race and creed, 

Thunderless lightnings striking under 

sea 
From sunset and sunrise of all thy 

realm, 
And that true North, whereof we 

lately heard 
A strain to shame us ' keep you to 

So loyal is too costly ! friends — your 

love 
Is but a burthen : loose the bond, and 




e, that 



That made us rulers ? this, indeed, her 

voice 
And meaning, whom the roar of Hou- 

goumont 
Left mightiest of all peoples under 

heaven } 
What shock has fool'd her 

she should speak 
So feebly.' wealthier — wealthier — 

hour by hour I 
The voice of Britain, or a sinking 

land. 
Some third-rate isle half-lost among 

her seas .' 
There rang her voice, when the full 

city peal'd 
Thee and thy Prince ! The loyal to 

their crown 
Are loyal to their own far sons, who 

love 
Our ocean-empire with her boundless 

homes 
For ever-broadening England, and her 

In our vast Orient, and one isle, one 

isle. 
That knows not her own greatness : 

if she knows 
And dreads it we are fall'n.- 

thou, my Queen, 
Not for itself, but thro' thy living love 
For one to whom I made it o'er his 

grave 
Sacred, except this old imperfect tale, 





To the Queen. 



New-old, and shadowing Sense at war 

with Soul 
Rather than that gray king, whose 

name, a ghost. 
Streams like a cloud, man-shaped, 

from mountain peak. 
And cleaves to cairn and cromlech 

still; or him 
Of Geoffrey's book, or him of Mall- 

eor's, one 
Touch'd by the adulterous finger of a 

time 
That hover'd between war and wan- 
tonness. 
And crownings and dethronements : 

take withal 
Thy poet's blessing, and his trust that 

Will blow the tempest in the distance 

back 
From thine and ours : for some are 

scared, who mark, 
Or wisely or unwisely, signs of storm. 
Waverings of every vane with every 

wind, 
And wordy trucklings to the transient 

And fierce or careless looseners of 
the faith, 




And Softness breeding scorn of sim- 
ple life. 

Or Cowardice, the child of lust for 
gold, • 

Or Labor, with a groan and not a 

Or Art with poisonous honey stol'n 

from France, 
And that which knows, but careful for 

itself. 
And that which knows not, ruling that 

which knows 
To its own harm : the goal of this 

great world 
Lies beyond sight : yet — if our slowl)'- 

grown 
And crown'd Republic's crowning 

common-sense, 
That saved her many times, not fail — 

their fears 
Are morning shadows huger than the 

shapes 
That cast them, not those gloomier 

which forego 
The darkness of that battle in the 

West, 
Where all of high and holy dies 

away. 







THE LOVER'S TALE. 

The original Preface to ' The Lover's Tale ' states that it was composed in toy nineteenth 
year. Two only o£ the three parts then written were printed, when, feeling the imper- 
fection of the poem. I withdrew it from the press. One of my friends however who, boy- 
like, admired the boy's work, distributed among our common associates of that hour some 
copies of these two parts, without my knowledge, without the omissions and amendments 
which I had in contemplation, and marred by the many misprints of the compositor. 
Seeing that these two parts have of late been mercilessly pirated, and that what I had 
deemed scarce worthy to live is not allowed to die, may I not be pardoned if I suffer the 
whole poem at last to come into the light — accompanied with a reprint of the sequel— a 
work of my mature life—' The Golden Supper ' ? 
Maj; 1879. 

ARGUMENT. 

Julian, whose cousin and foster-sister, Camilla, has been wedded to his friend and rival, 
Lionel, endeavors to narrate the story of his own love for her, and the strange sequel. 
He speaks (in Parts II. and III.) of having been haunted by visions and the sound of bells, 
tolling for a funeral, and at last ringing for a marriage ; but he breaks away, overcome, 
less to it completes the tale. 



i he approaches the Event, s 
I. 



Here far 



seen from the 



cliff. 



Filling with purple gloom the vacan- 
cies 

Between the tufted hills, the sloping 
seas 

Hung in mid-heaven, and half-way 
down rare sails, 

White as white clouds, floated from 
sky to sky. 

Oh ! pleasant breast of waters, quiet 
bay, 

Like to a quiet mind in the loud 
world, 

Where the chafed breakers of the 
outer sea 

Sank powerless, as anger falls aside 

And withers on the breast of peaceful 
love ; 

Thou didst receive the growth of 
pines that fledged 

The hills that watch'd thee, as Love 
watcheth Love, 
thine own essence, and delight thy- 
self 

To make it wholly thine on sunny 
davs. 




Keep thou thy name of ' Lover's 

Bay.' See, sirs. 
Even now the Goddess of the Past, 

that takes 
The heart, and sometimes touches but 

one string 
That quivers, and is silent, and some- 
times 
Sweeps suddenly all its half-moulder'd 

chords 
To some old melody, begins to 

play 
That air which pleased her first. I 

feel thy breath; 
I come, great Mistress of the ear and 

Thy breath is of the pinewood ; and 

tho' years 
Have hollow'd out a deep and stormy 

strait 
Betwixt the native land of Love and 

me. 
Breathe but a little on me, and the 

Will draw me to the rising of the 

The lucid chambers of the morning 

And East of Life. 





The Lover s Tale. 




Permit me, friend, I prvthee, 


Clash'd, calling to each other, and 


To pass my hand across my brows, 


thro' the arch 


and muse 


Down those loud waters, like a set- 


On those dear hills, that never more 


ting star. 


will meet 


Mixt with the gorgeous west the 


The sight that throbs and aches be- 


lighthouse shone. 


neath mv touch, 


And silver-smiling Venus ere she fell 


As tho' there beat a heart in either 


Would often loiter in her balmy blue. 


eye; 


To crown it with herself. 


For when the outer lights are darken'd 




thus. 


Mere, too, my love 


The memory's vision hath a keener 


Waver'd at anchor with me, when 


edge. 


day hung 



It grows upon me now — the semicircle 
Of dark-blue waters and the narrow 

fringe 
Of curving beach— its wreaths of 



Its pale pink shells 



aloft 



the sunimerhouse 
th doors 



That open'd on the pirn 

of glass, 
A mountain nest — the pleasure-boat 

that rock'd, 
Light-green with its own shadow, keel 

to keel. 
Upon the dappled dimplings of the 

wave, 
That blanch'd upon its side. 

O Love, O Hope ! 
they crowd upon tiie all 

1 the cloud of unforgotten 
things, 

sometimes on the horizon of the 
mind 
Lies folded, often sweeps athwart in 

storm — 
Flash upon flash they lighten thro' 

me — days 
Of dewy dawning and the amber 



They con 

at 

Moved fr 

That son- 



Whe 



d I, Camilla, thou and 
the bay or safely 



Were borne ab: 

moor'd 
Beneath a low-brow'd cavern, wher 

the tide 
Plash'd, sappii 

without 
The slowly-ridging rollers 

cliffs 




From his mid-dome in Heaven's airy 

halls ; 
Gleams of the water-circles as they 

broke, 
Flicker'd like doubtful smiles about 

her lips, 
Quiver'd a flying glory on her hair. 
Leapt like a passing thought across 

her eyes ; 
And mine with one that will not pass. 



3, dwelt on 



And heaven jjass 
heaven, a face 

Most starry-fair, but kindled from 
within 

As 'twere with dawn. She was dark 
hair'd, dark-eyed : 

Oh, such dark eyes ! a single glance 
of them 

Will govern a whole life from birth 
to death, 

Careless of all things else, led on with 
light 

In trances and m visions : look at 
them. 

You lose yourself in utter ignorance ; 

You cannot find their depth ; for they 
go back, 

And farther back, and still withdraw 
themselves 

Quite into the deep soul, that ever- 
more 

Fresh springing from her fountains in 
the brain. 

Still pouring thro', floods with re- 
dundant life 

Her narrow portals. 

Trust me, long ago 
I should have died, if it were possible 





The Lover's Tale. 



'J"o die in gazing on that perfectness 
Whicli I do bear within me : I had 

died. 
But from my farthest lapse, mj' latest 



Thine image, like a ch 

and strength 
Upon the waters, push 



On these deserted 



of light 
li'd me back 
ds of barren 



Tho' from the deep vault where the 

heart of Hope 
Fell into dust, and crumbled in the 

dark — 
Forgetting how to render beautiful 
Her countenance with quick and 

healthful blood— 
Thou didst not sway me upward; 

could I perish 
While thou, a meteor of the sepul- 



Didst swathe thyself ; 



nd Hope's 
hath 



For ever? He, that saith 

o'er-stept 
The slippery footing of his narrow 

And fall'n away from judgment. 

Thou art light. 
To which my spirit leaneth all her 

flowers. 
And length of days, and immortal- 
ity 
Of thought, and freshness ever self- 

renew'd. 
For Time and Grief abode too long 

with Life, 
And, like all other friends i' the 

world, at last 
They grew aweary of her fellowship : 
So Time and Grief did beckon unto 

Death, 
And Death drew nigh and beat the 

doors of Life ; 
But thou didst sit alone in the inner 

house, 
A wakeful portress, and didst parle 

with Death, 
' This is a charmed dwelling which I 

hold;' 
So Death gave back, and would no 

further come. 





Nnr in the present place. To me 
alone, 

Push'd l^rom his chair of regal herit- 
age. 

The Present is the vassal of the 
Past: 

So that, in that I hare li 



And 



die. 



d, do I 
having 



A portion of the pleasant yesterday. 
Thrust forward on to-day and out of 

place ; 
A body journeying onward, sick with 

toil. 
The weight as if of age upon my 

limbs. 
The grasp of hopeless grief about my 

heart. 
And all the senses weaken'd, save in 

that. 
Which long ago they had glean'd 

and garner'd up 
Into the granaries of memory — 
The clear brow, bulwark of the pre- 
cious brain, 
Chink'd as you see, and seam'd — and 

all the while 
The light soul twines and mingles 

with the growths 
Of vigorous early days, attracted, 

won. 
Married, made one with, molten into 

all 
The beautiful in Past of act or 

place. 
And like the all-enduring camel. 



nd fountain b 
middle moonli 



Far from the dianit 
the palms. 

Who toils across the 
nights, 

Or when the white heats of the blind- 
ing noons 

Beat from the concave sand ; yet in 
him keeps 

A draught of that sweet fountain 
that he loves. 

To stay his feet from falling, and his 
spirit 

From bitterness of death. 





The Lovt'f's Talc. 



Ye ask me, friends, 
When I began to love. How should 

I tell you ? 
Or from the after-fulness of my heart, 
Flow back again unto my slender 

spring 
And first of love, tho' every turn and 

depth 
Between is clearer in my life than 

all 
Its present flow. Ye know not what 

How should the broad and open 

flower tell 
What sort of bud it was, when, prest 

together 
In its green sheath, close-lapt in 

silken folds. 
It seem'd to keep its sweetness to it- 
self, 
Yet was not the less sweet for that it 

seem'd ? 
For young Life knows not when 

young Life was born. 
But takes it all for granted : neither 

Love, 
Warm in the heart, his cradle, can re- 
member 
Love in the womb, but resteth satis- 
fied. 
Looking on her that brought him to 

the light : 
Or as men know not when they fall 

asleep 
Into delicious dreams, our other life, 
So know I not when I began to love. 
This is my sum of knowledge — that 

my love 
Grew with myself— say rather, was 

my growth. 
My inward sap, the hold I have on 

earth, 
My outward circling air wherewith I 

breathe, 
Which yet upholds my 

more 
Is to me daily life and d 
For how should I have 

have loved ? 
Can ye take off the sv 

the flower. 
The color and the sweetness from the 

rose. 




life, and ever 







And place them by themselves ; or 

set apart 
Their motions and their brightness 

from the stars. 
And then point out the flower or the 

Or build a wall betwixt my life and 
love. 

And tell me where I am.' 'Tis even 
thus : 

In that I live I love ; because I love 

I live : whate'er is fountain to the one 

Is fountain to the other ; and when- 
e'er 

Our God unknits the riddle of the 
one, 

There is no shade or fold of mystery 

Swathing the other. 

Many, many years, 

(For thev seem many and my most of 
life, 

And well I could have linger'd in 
that porch. 

So unproportion'd to the dwelling- 
place,) 

In the Maydews of childhood, oppo- 
site 

The flush and dawn of youth, we 
lived together, 

Apart, alone together on those hills. 

Before he saw my day my father 

died. 
And he was happy that he saw it not ; 
But I and the fir?t daisy on his grave 
From the same clay came into light at 

once. 
As Love and I do number equal 

years, 
So she, my love, is of an age with me. 
How like each other was the birth of 

each ! 
On the same morning, almost the 



Unde 



selfsame aspect of the 



(Oh falsehood of all starcraft!) we 

were born. 
How like each other was the birth of 

each ! 
The sister of my mother — she that 

bore 





The Lover's Tale. 



Camilla close beneath her beating 

heart, 
Which to the iniprison'd spirit of the 

child, 
With its true-touched pulses in the 

flow 
And hourly visitation of the blood, 
Sent notes of preparation manifold, 
And niellow'd echoes of the outer 

world— 
My mother's sister, mother of my 

Who had a twofold claiin upon my 

heart, 
One twofold mightier than the other 

was, 
In giving so much beauty to the 

world, 
And so much wealth as God had 

charged her with — 
Loathing to put it from herself for 



life with it ; and dying 



Left her ov 

thus, 
Crown'd with her highest act the 

placid face 
And breathless body of her good 

deeds past. 

So were we bom, so orphan'd. 

She was motherless 
And I without a father. So from 

each 
Of those two pillars which from earth 

uphold 
Our childhood, one had fallen away, 

and all 
The careful burthen of our tender 

Trembled upon the other. He that 
gave 

Her life, to me delightedly fulfrH'd 

All lovingkindnesses, all offices 

Of watchful care and trembling ten- 
derness. 

He waked for both : he pray'd for 
both : he slept 

Dreaming of both : nor was his love 
the less 

Because it was divided, and shot 
forth 

Boughs on each side, laden with 
wholesome shade. 





Wherein we nested sleeping or 

awake, 
And sang aloud the matin-song of 

life. 

She was my foster-sister : on one 

arm 
The fla.xen ringlets of our infancies 
W' ander'd, the while we rested : one 

soft lap 
Pillow'd us both : a common light of 

eyes 
Was on us as we lay: our baby lips. 
Kissing one bosom, ever drew from 

thence 
The stream of life, one stream, one 

life, one blood. 
One sustenance, which, still as 

thought grew large. 
Still larger moulding all the house of 

thought. 
Made all our tastes and fancies like, 

perhaps — 
All — all but one ; and strange to me, 

and sweet. 
Sweet thro' strange years to know 

that whatsoe'er 
Our general mother meant for me 

alone, 
Our mutual mother dealt to both of 

us: 
So what was earliest mine in earliest 

life, 
I shared with her in whom myself 

remains. 
As was our childhood, so our in- 
fancy. 
They tell me, was a very miracle 
Of fellow-feeling and communion. 
They tell me that we would not be 

alone, — 
We cried when we were parted ; when 

I wept, 
Her smile lit up the rainbow on my 



Stay'd 



the cloud of sorrow; that 



The sound of one-another's voices 

more 
Than the gray cuckoo loves his name, 

and learn'd 
To lisp in tune together; that we 

slept 





The Lover's Tale. 



In the same cradle always, face to 

face. 
Heart beating time to heart, lip press- 
Folding each other, breathing on each 

other, 
Dreaming together (dreaming of each 

other 
They should have added), till the 

morning light 
-Sloped thro' the pines, upon the dewy 

pane 
Falling, unseal'd our eyelids, and we 

woke 
To gaze upon each other. If this be 

true, 
At thought of which my whole soul 

languishes 
And taints, and hath no pulse, no 

breath — as tho' 
A man in some still garden should 

infuse 
Rich atar in the bosom of the rose, 
Till, drunk with its own wine, and 

overfull 
Of sweetness, and in smelling of 

itself, 
It fall on its own thorns — if this be 



tni 



And tha 



my wish leads me ever- 
2ve it — 'tis so sweet a 



Still to believe it- 
thought. 

Why in the utter stillness of the 
soul 

Doth question'd memory answer not, 
nor tell 

Of this our earliest, our closest-drawn. 

Most loveliest, earthly-heavenliest 



O bio 



portal of the lonely 
promise, glad 



Green prelude, Apr 

new-year 
Of Being, which with earliest violets 
And lavish carol of clear-throated 



rks 




I'ill'd all the March of 
not speak of thee, 

never know thee. 
They cannot understand 
we then 



fe I— I will 

hee, these can 

Pass 




A term of eighteen years. Ye would 

but laugh, 
If I should tell you how I hoard in 

thought 
The faded rhymes and scraps of 

ancient crones. 
Gray relics of the nurseries of the 

world. 
Which are as gems set in my memory, 
Because she learnt them, with me ; or 

To know her father left us Just before 
The daffodil was blown ? or how we 

found 
The dead man cast upon the shore .> 

All this 
Seems to the quiet daylight of your 



: cloud and smoke. 



e dark 
ith me 



Is traced with flame. Move 

to the event. 
There came a glorious morning, 

such a one 
As dawns but once a season. Mer- 
cury 
On such a morning would have flung 

himself 
From cloud to cloud, and swum with 

balanced wings 
To some tall mountain : when I saic 

to her, 
'A day for Gods 

wered, ' Ay, 
And men to soar : 

gazed. 
Shading his eyes 

cloud. 
The prophet and the chariot and the 

steeds, 
Suck'd into oneness like a little star 
Were drunk into the inmost blue, we 

stood, 
When first we came from out the 

pines at noon. 
With hands for eaves, uplooking and 

almost 
Waiting to see some blessed shape in 

So bathed we were in brilliance. 

Never vet 
Before or after have I known the 

spring 



stoop,' she ans- 
for as that other 
;ill all the fiery 





The Lover's Tale. 



uch sudden deluges of 
middle summer : for that 



ising, shook his wings, and 

charged the winds 
With si)iccd May-sweets from bound 

to bound, and blew 
Fresh fire into the sun, and from 

within 
Burst thro' the heated buds, and sent 

his soul 
Into the songs of birds, and touch'd 

far-off 
His mountain-altars, his high hills, 

with flame 
Milder and purer. 

Thro' the rocks we wound : 
The great pine shook with lonely 

sounds of joy 
That came on the sea-wind. As 



Our bloods ran free : the sunshine 
seem'd to brood 

More warmly on the heart than on 
the brow. 

We often paused, and, looking back, 
we saw 

The clefts and openings in the moun- 
tains fill'd 

With the blue valley and the glisten- 

And all 'the low 'dark groves, a land 
A land of promise, a land of mem- 

A land of promise flowing with the 

milk 
And honey of delicious memories! 
And down to sea, and far as eye could 

ken, 
Each way from verge to verge a Holy 

Land, 
Still growing holier as you near'd the 

bay, 
For there' the Temple stood. 

When we had reach'd 
The grassy platform on some hill, I 

stoop'd, 
I gather'd the wild herbs, and for her 

brows 





And mine made garlan 

same flower. 
Which she took smiling, and with my 

work thus 
Crown'd her clear forehead. Once or 

twice she told me 
(For I remember all things) to let 

grow 
The flowers that run poison in their 



She said, 'The evil fl( 

world.' 
Then playfully she gav 



the 



' Nothing in nature is unbeautiful ; 
So, brother, pluck and spare i 

So I wove 
Ev'n the dull-blooded poppy-s 

' whose flower, 
Hued with the scarlet of a fierce 



Like 



the 



■ild 



youth of an evil 
but who crowns 



pnnce 
Is withi 

himself 
Above the naked poisons of his heart 
In his old age.' A graceful thought 

of hers 
Grav'n on my fancy ! And oh, how 

like a nymph, 
A stately mountain nymph she 

look'd ! how native ' 
Unto the hills she trod on ! While I 

gazed 
My coronal slowly disentwined itself 
And fell between' us both ; tho' while 

I gazed 
My spirit leap'd as with those thrills 

of bliss 
That strike across the soul in prayer, 

and show us 
That we are surely heard. Methought 

a light 
Burst from the garland I had wov'n, 

and stood 
A solid glory on her bright black 



A light methought broke f 

dark, dark eves, 
And shot itself 'into the 





As from a glass in the sun, and fell 

about 
M)- footsteps on the mountains. 

Last we came 
To what our people call ' The Hill of 

Woe.' 
A bridge is there, that, look'd at from 

beneath 
Seems but a cobweb filament to link 
The yawning of an earthquake-cloven 

chasm. 
And thence one night, when all the 

winds were loud, 
A woful man (for so the story went) 
Had thrust his wife and child and 

dash'd himself 
Into the dizzy depth below. Below, 
Fierce in the strength of far descent, 

Flies with a shatter'd foam along the 

chasm. 
The path was perilous, loosely 

strown with crags : 
We mounted slowly ; yet to both 

there came 
The joy of life in steepness overcome. 
And victories of ascent, and looking 

down 
On all that had look'd down on us; 

and joy 
In breathing nearer heaven; and joy 



Itself; 
And more than joy that I to her 

became 
Her guardian and her angel, raising 

her 
Still higher, past all peril, until she 

Beneath her feet the region far away, 
Beyond the nearest mountain's bosky 

brows. 
Arise in open prospect — heath and 

hill. 
And hollow lined and wooded to the 




And steep-down ' 

mented rock 
Gilded with broom, 
lires, 



Is of battle- 
shatter'd into 




And glory of broad waters interfused. 
Whence rose as it were breath and 

steam of gold, 
And over all the great wood rioting 
And climbing, streak'd or starr'd at 

intervals 
With falling brook or blossom'd bush 

—and last. 
Framing the mighty landscape to the 

west, 
A purple range of mountain-cones, 

between 
Whose interspaces gush'd in blinding 

bursts 
The incorporate blaze of sun and 



At length 
Descending from the point and stand- 
ing both. 
There on the tremulous bridge, that 

from beneath 
Had seem'd a gossamer filament up 

in air. 
We paused amid the splendor. All 

the west 
And ev'n unto the middle south was 

ribb'd 
And barr'd with bloom on bloom. 

The sun below. 
Held for a space 'twi.\t cloud and 

wave, shower'd down 
Rays of a mighty circle, weaving over 
That various wilderness a tissue of 

light 
Unparallel'd. On the other side, the 

Half-melted into thin blue air, stood 

still, 
And pale and fibrous as a wither'd 

leaf, 
Nor yet endured in presence of His 



To 



eyes_ 



his 



nlov 



most 
like. 
Since in his absence full of light and 

And giving light to others. But this 

Next to her presence whom I loved 
so well, 

inmost 





As to my outward hearing ; the loud 

Forth issuing from his portals in the 

crag ' 
(A visible link unto the home of my 

Ran amber toward the west, and nigh 
the sea 

Parting my own loved mountains was 
received, 

Shorn of its strength, into the sympa- 
thy 

Of that small bay, which out to open 

Glow'd intermingling close beneath 
the sun. 

Spirit of Love ! that little hour was 
bound 

Shut in from Time, and dedicate to 
thee : 

Thy fires from heaven had touch'd it, 
and the earth 

They fell on became hallow'd ever- 
more. 

We turn'd: our eyes met: hers 

were bright, and mine 
Were dim with floating tears, that 

shot the sunset 
In lightnings round me ; and my name 

was borne 
Upon her breath. Henceforth my 

name has been 
A hallow'd memorv like the names of 

old, 
A center'd, glory-circled memory, 
.A.nd a peculiar treasure, brooking not 
Exchange or currency : and in that 



Even that this name to which hergra- 

Did lend such gentle utterance, this 

fter, might in- 

fe, 



e name, 
obscure h 
ithe 
(How lovelier, nobler then!) her 



A hope flow'd round me, HI 
Charm'd amid eddies of 



a golden 
elodious 



A moment, ere the onward whirlwind 

shatter it, 
Waver'd and floated — which was less 

than Hope, 
ause it lack'd the power of perfect 

Hope; 
which was more and higher than 

all Hope, 
Because all other Hope had lower 

aim; 



With my life, love, soul, spirit, and 
heart and strength. 

' Brother,' she said, ' let this be 

call'd henceforth 
The Hill of Hope ; ' and I replied, ' O 

sister. 
My will is one with thine; the Hill of 

Hope.' 
Nevertheless, we did not change the 



I did not speak : I could not speak 

my love. 
Love lieth deep : Love dwells not in 

lil>depths. 
Love wraps his wings on either side 

the heart. 
Constraining it with kisses close and 

warm. 
Absorbing all the incense of sweet 

thoughts 
So that they pass not to the shrine of 

sound. 
Else had the life of that delighted 

hour 
Drunk in the largeness of the utter- 
ance 
Of Love ; but how should Earthly 

measure mete 
The Heavenly-unmeasured or unlimi- 
ted Love, 
Who scarce can tune his high majestic 

sense 
Unto the thundersong that wheels the 

spheres. 
Scarce living in the .^olian harmony. 
And flowing odor of the spacious air. 
Scarce housed within the circle of 

this Earth, 
Be cabin'd up in words and syllables, 
Which pass with that which breathes 

them ? Sooner Earth 
Might go round Heaven, and the 

strait girth of Time 




The Lover's Tale. 



Iiisvvathe the fulness of Eternity, 
Than language grasp the infinite of 
Love. 

O day which did enwomb that 
happy hour, 
Thou art blessed in the years, divin- 

O Genius of that hour which dost up- 
hold 

Thy coronal of glory like a God, 

Amid thy melancholy mates far-seen, 

Who walk before thee, ever turning 
round 

To gaze upon thee till their eyes are 
dim 

With dwelling on the light and depth 
of thine. 

Thy name is ever worshipp'd among 



Had I died then, 
die. 



had not seem'd to 
>und me like the 
liad not known the 



For bliss stood i 

light of Hea 
Had I died then, I 

death ; 
Yea had the Power from whose right 

hand the light 
Of Life issueth, and from whose left 

hand floweth 
The Shadow of Death, perennial efflu- 
ences. 
Whereof to all that draw the whole- 
some air, 
Somewhile the one must overflow the 

other; 
Then had he stemm'd my day with 

night, and driven 
My current to the fountain whence it 

sprang,— 
Even his own abiding excellence — 
On me, methinks, that shock of gloom 

had fall'n 
Unfelt, and in this glory I had merged 
The other, like the sun I gazed 

upon. 
Which seeming for the moment due 

to death. 
And dipping his head low beneath the 

verge. 
Yet bearing round about him his own 




confidence of unabated strength. 




Steppeth from Heaven to Heaven, 

from light to light. 
And holdeth his undimmed forehead 

far 
Into a clearer zenith, pure of cloud. 

We trod the shadow of the down- 
ward hill ; 
We past from light to dark. On the 

other side 
Is scoop'd a cavern and a mountain 

hall. 
Which none have fathom'd. If you 

go far in 
(The country people rumor) you 

may liear 
The moaning of the woman and the 

child. 
Shut in the secret chambers of the 

rock. 
I too have heard a sound — perchance 

Running far on within its inmost 
halls. 

The home of darkness ; but the cav- 
ern-mouth. 

Half overtraded with a wanton weed. 

Gives birth to a brawling brook, that 
passing lightly 

A down a natural stair of tangled 

Is presently received in a sweet grave 
Of eglantines, a place of burial 
Far lovelier than its cradle ; for un- 
seen. 
But taken with the sweetness of the 

place. 
It makes a constant bubbling melody 
That drowns the nearer echoes. 

Lower down 
Spreads out a little lake, that, flood- 
ing, leaves 
Low banks of yellow sand; and from 

the woods 
That belt it rise three dark, tall cy- 



Three cyp 
woe. 
That men plant on gra 



Hither we came. 
And sitting down upon the golden 




r 




1 


xin 1 1-3 9 \ 1 m 






1 


. The Lover's Tale. 365 


Held converse sweet and low— low 


I heard and trembled, yet I could but 




- ■ 


converse sweet. 


hear ; 










In which our voices bore least part. 


My heart paused— my raised eyelids 


IF 






^ The wind 


would not fall, W 






Told a lovetale beside us, liow lie 


But still I keiJt my eyes upon the sky. 






woo'd 


I seem'd the onlv part of Time stood 






The waters, and the waters answering 


still. 






lisp'd 


And saw the motion of all other 






To kisses of the wind, that, sick with 


things ; 






love, 


While her words, syllable by syllable. 






Fainted at intervals, and grew again 


Like water, drop by drop, upon my 






To utterance of passion. Ye cannot 


ear 






shape 


Fell ; and I wish'd, yet wish'd her not 






Fancy so fair as is this memory. 


to speak ; 






Methought all excellence that ever 


But she spake on, for I did name no 






was 


wish. 






Had drawn herself from many thou- 


What marvel niv Camilla told me all 






sand years. 


Her maiden dignities of Hope and 






And all the separate Edens of this 


Love- 






earth. 


' Perchance,' she said, 'return-d.' 






To centre in this place and time. I 


Even then the stars 






listen'd, 


Did tremble in their stations as I 




i 


And her words stole with most pre- 


gazed ; 






vailing sweetness 


But she spake on, for I did name no 






Into my heart, as thronging fancies 


wish, 






come 


No wish— no hope. Hope was not 






To boys and girls when summer da)'s 


wholly dead, 






are new. 


But breathing hard at the approach of 






And soul and heart and body are all 


Deathf- 






at ease : 


Camilla. my Camilla, who was mine 






What marvel my Camilla told me all .> 


No longer' in the dearest sense of 






It was so happy an hour, so sweet a 


mine — 






place, 


For all the secret of her inmost heart, 






And I was as the brother of her blood. 


And all the maiden empire of her 






And by that name I moved upon her 


mind, 






breath ; 


Lav like a map before me, and I saw 






Dear name, which had too much of 


There, where I hoped myself to reign 






nearness in it 


as king, 






And heralded the distance of this 


There, where that day I crown'd my- 






time! 


self as king, 






At first her voice was very sweet and 


There in my realm and even on my 








throne. 






As if she were afraid of utterance ; 


Another ! then it seem'd as tho' a link 






But in the onward current of her 


Of some tight chain within my inmost 






speech. 


frame 






(As echoes of the hollow-banked 


Was riven in twain : that life I heeded 






brooks 


not 






\r Are fashion'd bv the channel which 


Flow'd from me, and the darkness of '^ 






1 


they keep), 


the grave. 








n 


Her words did of their meaning bor- 


The darkness of the grave and utter 


" 








row sound. 


night. 










Her cheek did catch the color of her 


Did swallow up my vision ; at her 










words. 


feet. 


_ 




El IS I 1 1 \±^\ 


_ 










The Lover's Tale. 



Even the fe'et of her 1 loved, I fell, 
Smit with exceeding sorrow unto 
Death. 

Then had the earth beneath me 
yawning cloven 

With such a sound as when an ice- 
berg splits 

From cope to base — had Heaven from 
all her doors. 

With all her golden thresholds clash- 
ing, roll'd 

Her heaviest thunder — I had lain as 
dead, 

Mute, blind and motionless as then I 



Dead, for henceforth there was no 

life for me ! 
Mute, for henceforth what use were 

Blind, for the day was as the night to 

The night to me was kinder than the 

day; 
The night in pity took away my day, 
I'ecause my grief as yet was newly 

born 
Of eyes too weak to look upon the 

light ; 
And thro' the hasty notice of the ear 
Frail Life was startled from the tender 

Of him she brooded over. Would I 

had lain 
Until the plaited ivy-tress had wound 
Round my worn limbs, and the wild 

brier had driven 
Its knotted thorns thro' my unpaining 

Leaning its roses on my faded eyes. 
The wind had blown above me, and 

the rain 
Had fall'n upon me, and the gilded 

snake 
Had nestled in this bosom-throne of 

Love, 
But I had been at rest for evermore. 

Long time entrancement held me. 
All too soon 
Life (like a wanton too-officious friend, 
Who will not hear denial, vain and 





With proffer of unvvish'd-for services) 
Entering all the avenues of sense 
Past thro' into his citadel, the brain. 
With hated warmth of apprehensive- 

ness. 
And first the chillness of the sprinkled 

brook 
Smote on my brows, and then I seem'd 

to hear 
Its murmur, as the drowning seaman 

hears. 
Who with his head below the surface 

dropt 
Listens the muffled booming indistinct 
Of the confused floods, and dimly 

knows 
His head shall rise no more : and then 

came in 
The white light of the weary moon 

Diffused and molten into flaky cloud. 
Was my sight drunk that it did shape 

to me 
Him who should own that name .'' 

Were it not well 
If so be that the echo of that name 
Ringing within the fancy had updrawn 
A fashion and a phantasm of the form 
It should attach to ? Phantom !— -had 

the ghastliest 
That ever lusted for a body, sucking 
The foul steam of the grave to thicken 

by it. 
There in the shuddering moonlight 

brought its face 
And what it has for eyes as close to 

mine 
As he did — better that than his, than 

he 
The friend, the neighbor, Lionel, the 



The 



red. 






ippy 



The low-voiced, tender-spirited Lionel, 
All joy, to whom my agony was a joy. 
O how her choice did leap forth from 

his eyes I 
O how her love did clothe itself in 

smiles 
About his lips! and — not one mo- 
ment's grace- 
Then when the effect weigh'd seas 
upon my head 





The Lover's Tale. 



Was not the land as free thro' all 

To him as me ? Was not his wont to 

walk 
Between the going light and growing 

night ? 
Had I not learnt my loss before he 



Could that be 



lore because he came 
not come my way if 



And yet to-night, to-night 

my wealth 
Flash'd from me ir 



all 



and I 

hy should he 

must 

rown of beams about 



Beggar'd for evei 

cnnie my way 
Robed in those rubes of ligli 

With tha 

his brows- 
Come like an angel to a damned soul. 
To tell him of the bliss he had with 

God- 
Come like a careless and a greedy 

That scarce can wait the reading of 

the will 
Before he takes possession ? Was 

mine a mood 
To be invaded rudely, and not rather 
A sacred, secret, uiiapproached woe. 
Unspeakable } I was shut up with 

Grief ; 
She took the body of my past de- 
light, 
Narded and swathed and balm'd it for 

herself. 
And laid it in a sepulchre of rock 
Never to rise again. I was led mute 
Into her temple like a sacrifice ; 
I was the High Priest in her holiest 

place. 
Not to be loudly broken in upon. 

Oh friend, thoughts deep and heavy 
as these well-nigh 
O'erbore the limits of my brain : but 




Bent o'er 
I thought 




:, and my neck his arm 
vas an adder's fold, and 
disengage myself, but 



I strove to 
fail'd, 
Being so feeble : she bent above me, 

Wan was her cheek ; for whatsoe'er 

of blight 
Lives in the dewy touch of pity had 

made 
The red rose there a pale one — and 

I saw the moonlight glitter on their 

And some few drops of that distress- 



Fell 



1 my face, and her long ringlets 



ved. 



Drooping and beaten by the breeze, 

and brush'd 
My fallen forehead in their to and 

fro. 
For in the sudden anguish of her 

heart 
Loosed from their simple thrall they 

had flow'd abroad, 
And floated on and parted round her 

neck, 
Mantling her form halfway. She, 

when I woke. 
Something she ask'd, I know not 

what, and ask'd, 
Unanswer'd, since I spake not; for 

the sound 
Of that dear voice so musically low, 
And now first heard with any sense of 

pain. 
As it had taken life away before, 
Choked all the syllables, that strove 

to rise 
From my full heart. 

The blissful lover, too. 
From his great hoard of happiness 

distill'd 
Some drops of solace; like a vain 

rich man. 
That, having always prosper'd in the 

world. 
Folding his hands, deals comfortable 

words , 





The Lover's Tale. 



To hearts wounded for ever ; yet, in 

truth, 
Fair speech was his and delicate of 

phrase, 
Falling in whispers on the sense, ad- 

dress'd 
More to the inward than the outward 

ear, 
As rain of the midsummer midnight 

soft, 
Scarce-heard, recalling fragrance and 

the green 
Of the dead spring: but mine was 

wholly dead, 
No bud, no leaf, no flower, no fruit 

for me. 
Yet who had done, or who had 

suffer'd wrong ? 
And why was I (o darken their pure 

If, as I found, they two did love each 

other. 
Because my own was darken'd? Why 

was I 
To cross between their happy star 

and them ? 
To stand a shadow by their shining 

doors, 
And vex them with my darkness? 

Did I love her? 
Ye know that I did love her; to this 

present 
My full-orb'd love has waned not. 

Did I love her. 
And could I look upon her tearful eyes? 
What had she done to weep ? Why 

should she weep ? 

innocent of spirit — let my heart 
Break rather — whom the gentlest airs 

of Heaven 

Should kiss with an unwonted gentle- 
ness. 

Her love did murder mine? What 
then ? She deem'd 

1 wore a brother's mind : she call'd 

me brother : 
She told me all her love : she shall 



The brightness of a burning 
thought, awhile 

ith the glooms of my dark 





my 



love 



Moonlike emerged, and to itself lit 

up 
There on the depth of an unfathom'd 

woe 

Reflex of action. Starting up at once. 
As from a dismal dream of my own 

death, 
I, for I loved he 

Love; 
I, for I loved her, graspt the hand she 

lov'd. 
And laid it in her own, and sent my 

cry 
Thro' the blank night to Him who 

loving made 
The happy and the unhappy love, that 

He 
Would hold the hand of blessing over 

them, 
Lionel, the happy, and her, and her, 

his bride I 
Let them so love that men and boys 

may say, 
'Lol how they love each other!' till 

their love 
Shall ripen to a proverb, unto all 
Known, when their faces are forgot in 

the land- 
One golden dream of love, from which 

may death 
Awake them with heaven's music in a 

life 
More living to some happier happi- 

Swallowing its precedent in victorv. 
And as for me, Camilla, as for me.— 
The dew of tears is an unwholesome 

dew. 
They will but sicken the sick plant 

the more. 
Deem that I love thee but as brothers 

do. 
So shall thou love nie still as sisters 

do; 
Or if thou dream aught farther, dream 

but how 
I could have loved thee, had there 

been none else 
To love as lovers, loved again l>v 

thee. 

Or this, or somewhat like 





The Lover's Tale. 



When I beheld her weep so ruefully ; 
For sure my love should ne'er indue 

the front 
And mask of Hate, who lives on 

others' moans. 
Shall Love pledge Hatred in her bitter 

draughts, 
And batten on her poisons ? Love 

forbid ! 
Love passeth not the threshold of 

cold Hate, 
And Hate is strange beneath the roof 

of Love. 
O Love, if thou be'st Love, dry up 

these tears 
Shed for the love of Love ; for tho' 

mine image. 
The subject of thy power, be cold in 

her. 
Yet, like cold snow, it melteth in the 

source 
Of these sad tears, and feeds their 

downward flow. 
So Love, arraign'd to judgment and to 

death, 
Received unto himself a part of blame. 
Being guiltless, as an innocent pris- 



Who, when the woful sentence hath 

been past. 
And all the clearness of his fame hath 

gone 
Beneath the shadow of the curse of 

man, 
First falls asleep in swoon, wherefrom 

awaked. 
And looking round upon his tearful 

friends, 
Forthwith and in his agony con- 
ceives 
A shameful sense as of a cleaving 

crime — 
For whence without some guilt should 

such grief be.' 



edth; 




hour, and fell into the 

irn, but not to me out- 

hail'd another — was there 
one ? 

might be one — one other, worth 
the life 




There be some hearts so airily 

built, that they. 
They — when their love is wreck'd — if 

Love can wreck — 
On that sharp ridge of utmost doom 

ride highly 
Above the perilous seas of Change 

and Chance ; 
Nay, more, hold out the lights of 

cheerfulness; 
As the tall ship, that many a dreary 

year 
Knit to some dismal sandbank far at 

sea. 
All thro' the livelong hours of utter 

dark, 
Showers slanting light upon the dolo- 
rous wave. 
For me — what light, what gleam on 

those black ways 
Where Love could walk with ban- 

ish'd Hope no more ? 

It was ill-done to part you, Sisters 

fair; 
Love's arms were wreath'd about the 

neck of Hope, 
And Hope kiss'd Love, and Love 

drew in her breath 
In that close kiss, and drank her 

whisj^er'd tales. 
They said that Love would die when 

Hope was gone. 
And Love mot 

row'd after Hope ; 
At last she sought out Memory, and 

they trod 
The same old paths where Love had 

walk'd with Hope, 
And Memory fed the soul of Love 



ng, and sor- 



From that time forth I would 

her more ; 
But many weary moons 





The Lover's Tak. 



Alone, and in the heart of the great 
Sometimes upon the hills beside the 



All day I watch'd the floating isles of 

shade, 
And sometimes on the shore, upon 

the sands 
Insensibly I drew her name, until 
The meaning of the letters shot into 
My brain; anon the wanton billow 

Them over, till they faded like my 

love. 
The hollow caverns heard me — the 

black brooks 
Of the midforest heard me — the soft 

winds, 
Laden with thistledown and seeds of 

flowers. 
Paused in their course to hear me, 

for my voice 
Was all of thee : the merry linnet 

knew me, 
The squirrel knew me, and the 

dragonfly 
Shot by me like a flash of purple 



7re" 



The 



rough brier tore my bleeding 

palms; the hemlock. 
Brow-high, did strike my forehead as 

I past ; 
Yet trod I not the wildflower in my 

Nor bruised the wildbird's egg. 

Was this the end ? 
Whv grew we then together in one 

plot? 
Why fed we from one fountain ? drew 

one sun ? 
Why were our mother's branches of 



Why were 



all things, save 



tha 



Where to have been one had been the 

cope and crown 
Of all I hoped and fear'd .'—if that 

le nearness 
Were father to this distance, and that 

urier to this double ? if Affec- 





Living slew Love, and Sympathy 

hew'd out 
The bosom-sepulchre of Sympathy ? 

Chiefly I sought the cavern and the 

hill 
Where last we roam'd together, for 

the sound 
Of the loud stream was pleasant, and 

the wind 
Came wooingly with woodbine smells. 

All day I sat within the cavern-mouth. 

Fixing my eyes on those three cy- 
press-cones 

That spired above the wood ; and with 
mad hand 

Tearing the bright leaves of the ivy- 
screen, 

I cast them in the noisy brook be- 
neath, 

And watch'd them till they vanish'd 
from my sight 

Beneath the bower of wreathed eg- 
lantines : 

And all the fragments of the living 
rock 

(Huge blocks, which some old trem 
bling of the world 

Had loosen'd from the mountain, till 
they fell 

Half-digging their own graves) these 
in my agony 

Did I make bare of all the golden 
moss. 

Wherewith the dashing runnel in the 
spring 

Had liveried them all over. In my 
brain 

The spirit seem'd to flag from thought 
to thought. 

As moonlight wandering thro' a mist : 
my blood 

Crept like marsh drains thro' all my 
languid limbs; 

The motions of my heart seem'd far 
within nie, 

Unfrequent, low, as tho' it told its 
pulses ; 

And yet it shook me, that my frame 
would shudder. 

As if 'twere drawn asunder by the 
rack. 





The Lover's Tale. 



But over the deep graves o£ Hope 

and Fear, 
And all the broken palaces of the 

Past, 
Brooded one master-passion ever- 



nd a fiery sky 
etropolis, earth- 



. dead, 



Like to a low-hui 
Above some fai 

shock'd, — 
Hung round with ragged rims and 

burning folds, — 
Embathing all with wild and woful 

hues. 
Great hills of ruins, and collapsed 

Of thundershaken columns indistinct. 
And fused together in the tyrannous 

light- 
Ruins, the ruins of all my life and me ! 

Sometimes I thought Camilla was 

no more, 
Some one had told me she 

and ask'd 
If I would see her burial : then I 

seem'd 
To rise, and through the forest-shadow 

borne 
With more than mortal swiftness, I 

ran down 
The steepy sea-bank, till I came upon 
The rear of a procession, curving 

The silver-sheeted bay : in front of 

which 
Six stately virgins, all in white, up- 
bare 
A broad earth-sweeping pall of whit- 
Wreathed round the bier with gar- 
lands : in the distance, 
From out the yellow woods upon the 

hill 
Look'd forth the summit and the pin- 
nacles 
Of a gray steeple — thence at inter- 

A low bell tolling. All the pageant- 
ry- 

Save those six virgins which upheld 
the bier, 

Were stoled from head to foot in 
flowing black ; 




One walk'd abreast with me, and veil 

his brow. 
And he was loud in weeping and 

praise 
Of her, we follow'd : a strong synip 

thy 
Shook all 




>ul : I flung myself 
: I told him all mv 



lov 



How I had loved her from the first ; 
whereat 

He shrank and howl'd, and from his 
brow drew back 

His hand to push me from him ; and 
the face. 

The very face and form of Lionel 

Flash'd thro' my eyes into my inner- 
most brain. 

And at his feet I seem'd to faint and 
fall. 

To fall and die awav- I could not 



Albeit I strove 


follow. 


They past 


Thelordlv Phantasms! in 

ing folds 
They past and were no n 

had fallen 
Prone by the dashing rui 


their float- 
ore : but I 
nel on the 


grass. 






Alway the 
thought. 


inaudible 


invisible 



Artificer and subject, lord and slave. 
Shaped by the audible and visible, 
Moulded the audible and visible ; 
All crisped sounds of wave and leaf 

and wind, 
Flatter'd the fancy of my fading 

The cloud-pavilion'd element, the 

The mountain, the three cvpresses, 
the cave, 

Storm, sunset, glows and glories of 
the moon 

Below black firs, when silent creep- 
ing winds 

Laid the long night in silver streaks 
and bars, 

Were wrought into the tissue of my 
dream : 





The Lovers Talc. 



The moanings in the forest, the loud 
brook, 

Cries of the partridge lilte a rustv Icey 

Turn'd in a lock, owl-whoop and dor- 
hawk-whirr 

Awoke nie not, but were a part of 



And ' 
And 



ices in the distance calling 
my vision bidding me drea 



on. 



Like sounds without the twilight 

realm of dreams. 
Which wander round the bases of the 

hills. 
And murmur at the low-dropt eaves 

of sleep, 
Half-entering the portals. Often- 



The 
Opening 



had fair prelude, 
darkness, statelv 



the 



bule 



To caves and shows of Death : 
whether the mind. 

With some revenge — even to itself 
unknown, — 

Made strange division of its suffer- 
ing 

With her, whom to have suffering 
view'd had been 

Extremest pain ; or that the clear- 
eyed Spirit, 

Being blunted in the Present, grew at 
length 

Prophetical and prescient of whate'er 

The Future had in store : or that 
which most 

Enchains belief, the sorrow of my 

Was of so wide a compass it took in 
All I had loved, and my dull agony, 
Ideally to her transferr'd, became 
.\nguish intolerable. 



The day waned; 
\ with her : about my brow 
breath floated in the utter- 

Drded tones : her lips were 



Her 

Of si 



With smiles of tranquil bliss, which 
broke in light 





Like morning from 

eloquent eyes, 
(As I have seen th< 

dred times) 
Fill'd all with i>nre clear fire, thro' 

mine down rain'd 
Their spirit-searching splendors. As 

Unto a haggard prisoner, iron-stay'd 
In damp and dismal dungeons under- 
ground, 
Confined on points of faith, when 

strength is shock'd 
With torment, and expectancy of 

worse 
Upon the morrow, thro' the ragged 

walls. 
All unawares before his half-shut 

eyes. 
Comes in upon him in the dead of 

night. 
And with the excess of sweetness and 

of awe. 
Makes the heart tremble, and the 

sight run over 
Upon his steely gyves ; so those fair 

eyes 
Shone on my darkness, forms which 

ever stood 
Within the magic cirque of memory. 
Invisible but deathless, waiting still 
The edict of the will to rea.ssume 
The semblance of those rare realities 
Of which thev were the mirrors. Now 

the light 
Which was'their life, burst through 

the cloud of thought 
Keen, irrepressible. 

It was a room 
Within the summer-house of which I 

spake, 
Hung round with paintings of the sea, 

and one 
A vessel in mid-ocean, her heaved 

prow 
Clambering, the mast bent and the 

ravin wind 
In her sail roaring. From the 

day. 
Betwixt the close-set ivies came 

broad 
And solid beam of isolated light. 





The Lover's Tale. 



Crowded 



th dr: 



Slanting upon that 

prime youth 
Well-known well-loved 

long ago 
Forthgazing on the waste and open 



omies, and 
:ture, from 
She drew it 



One 1 



vhen the upblo 



Shoreward beneath red clouds, and I 

had pour'd 
Into the shadowing pencil's naked 

forms 
Color and life : it was a bond and 

seal 
Of friendship, spoken of with tearful 

smiles ; 
A monument of childhood and of 



Symbol'd in storm. We gazed on it 

together 
In mute and glad remembrance, and 

each heart 
Grew closer to the other, and the eye 
Was riveted and charm-bound, gaz- 



ing 



ed snake 



The Indi: 

couch'd — 
A beauty which is death ; when all at 

once 
That painted vessel, as with inner 

life, 
Began to heave upon that painted 

sea; 
An e.arthquake, my loud heart-beats, 

made the ground 
Reel under us, and all at once, soul, 

life 
And breath and motion, past and 

flow'd away 
To those unreal billows: round and 

round 
A whirlwind caught and bore us ; 

mighty gyres 
Rapid and vast, of hissing spray 

'nd-driven 
Far thro' the dizzy dark. Aloud she 

shriek'd; 
My heart . . . _ 





whirl'd giddily; th 
ithout fear 



About her : 

wind 
Sung ; but I clasp'd her 

her weight 
Shrank in my grasp, and over my dim 

eyes. 
And parted lips which drank her 

breath, down-hung 
The jaws of Death : I, groaning, from 

me flung . 
Her empty phantom : all the sway 

Of the storm dropt to windless calm, 

and I 
Down welter'd thro' the dark ever and 



I CAME one day 
Strewn in the em 



d sat among the 
of the moaning 



cave ; 
A morning air, sweet after 

over 
The rippling levels of the 



and 



Coolness and moisture and all smells 
of bud 

And foliage from the dark and drip- 
ping woods 

Upon my fever'd brows that shook 
and throbb'd 

From temple unto temple. To what 
height 

The day had grown I know not. 
Then came on me 

The hollow tolling of the bell, and 



The 



all 



fori 



of the bier. 



who veil'd 



I walk'd behind w 

his brow. 
Methought bv slow degrees the sulk 

bell ' 
ToU'd quicker, and the breakers t 

the shore 
Sloped into louder surf: those th 

went with me, 
And those that held the b 

my face, 
Moved with one spirit round 





ud swifter steps ; and while I 

wallc'd witli tliese 
marvel at that gradual change, I 
thought 

Four bells instead of one began to 
ring. 

Four merry bells, four merry mar- 
riage bells, 

In clanging cadence jangling peal on 
peal- 

A long loud clash of rapid marriage- 
bells. 



Then 


those who led 


he van, and 




those in rear, 






Rush'd into dance, and like w 


Id Bac- 




chanals 






Fled 


onward to the s 
woods : 


eeple 


in the 


1, too 


was borne along 
blast 


and 


felt the 


Beat 


on my heated e 
once 


velids 


all at 


The front rank made a 


sudde 


n halt; 




the bells 






Lapsed into frightful 


lillne 


s; the 



surge fell 
From thunder into whispers; those 

With shrieks and ringing laughter on 
the sand 

Threw down the bier; the woods 
upon the hill 

Waved with a sudden gust that sweep- 
ing down 

Took the edges of the pall, and blew 
it far 

Until it hung, a little silver cloud 

Over the sounding seas: I turn'd: 
my heart 

Shrank in me, like a snowflake in the 
hand, 

Waiting to see the settled countenance 

Of her I loved, adorn'd with fading 
flowers. 

But she from out her death-like chrys- 
alis, 

She from her bier, as into fresher life. 

My sister, and my cousin, and my 





Of smiling welcome i 

her eyes 
And cheeks as bright 

climb'd the hill. 
One hand she reach'd to those that 

came behind, 
And while I mused nor yet endured 

to take 
So rich a prize, the man who stood 



■ithi 



Slept 



ily forward, throwing down 
his robes. 

And claspt her hand in his : again the 
bells 

Jangled and clang'd : again the stormy 
surf 

Crash'd in the shingle : and the whirl- 
ing rout 

Led by those two rush'd into dance, 
and fled 

Wind-footed to the steeple in the 

Till they were swallow'd in the leafy 
And I stood sole beside the vacant 



IV. 

THE GOUJEN SUPPER.l 

(Anol/u-r speaks.) 

He flies the event: he leaves the 

Poor Julian — how he rush'd away ; 

the bells. 
Those marriage-bells, echoing in ear 

and heart — 
But cast a parting glance at me, you 



One golden hour — of tr 





The Golden Supper. 



Would you had seen him in that 
hour of his ! 

He moved thro' all of it majesti- 
cally— 

Restrain'd himself quite to the close — 



Whether thev -iocre his lady's mar- 
riage-bells. 

Or prophets of tliem in his fantasy, 

I never ask'd : but Lionel and the girl 

Were wedded, and our Julian came 
again 

Back to his mother's house among the 
pines. 

But these, their gloom, the mountains 
and the Bay, 

The whole land weigh'd him down as 
yEtna does 

The Giant of Mythology: he would 

nd for ever, and 



Would leave tl 

had gone 
Surely, but for 

yet,' 
Some warning — sent divi 

seem'd 
By that which foUow'd — b 

deem 
As of the visions that h 



per. 



nely — as it 
It of this I 



Glanced back upon them in his 

after life. 
And partly made them — tho' he knew 



And thus he stay'd and would not 

look at her— 
No not for months: but, when the 

eleventh moon 
After their marriage lit the lover's 

Bay, 
Heard yet once more the tolling bell, 

and said. 
Would you could toll me out of life, 

but found- 
All softly as his mother broke it to 



A crueller reason than a crazy ear. 
For that low knell tolling his lady 

dead — 
Dead — and had lain three days with- 
out a pulse: 




All that look'd on her had pronounced 

her dead. 
And so they bore her (for in Julian's 

land 
They never nail a dumb head up in 




re her free-faced t 


D the free ai 


heaven, 




d laid her in the 


«ult of her 



die : he is 



What did he then 

here and hale — 
Not plunge headforemost from the 

mountain there. 
And leave the name of Lover's I^eap: 

not he : 
He knew the meaning of the whisper 

now. 
Thought that he knew it. ' This, I 

stay'd for this ; 

love, I have not seen you for so 

long. 
Now, now, will I go down into the 
grave, 

1 will be all alone with all I love, 
And kiss her on the lips. .She is his 

no more : 
The dead returns to me, and I go 



The fancy stirr'd him so 
He rose and went, and entering the 

And, making there a sudden light, be- 
held 

All round about him that which all 
will be. 

The light was but a flash, and went 
again. 

Then at the far end of the vault he 

His lady with the moonlight on her 
face; 

Her breast as in a shadow-prison, 
bars 

Of black and bands of silver, which 
the moon 

Struck from an open grating over- 
head 

High in the wall, and all the rest of 










xm 1 1 ■> 


? 1 \ v^ 


N,.^ 






376 TAe Lovei^s Tale. 




Drown'd in the gloom and horror of 


Holding his golden burthen in his 






the vault. 


So bore her' thro' the solitary land 


1 






•^ ' It was my wish,' he said, ' to pass, 


Back to the mother's, house where **» 






to sleep. 


she was born. 






To rest, to be wilh her— till the great 








day 


There the good mother's kindly 






Peal'd oil us with that music which 


ministering, 






rights all, 


With half a night's appliances, re- 




1 


And raised us hand in hand.' And, 


call'd 






kneeling there 


Her fluttering life: she rais'd an eye 






Down in the dreadful dust that once 


that ask'd 








' Where ? ' till the things familiar to 






Dust, as he said, that once was loving 


her youth 






hearts. 


Had made a silent answer : then she 






Hearts that had beat with such a love 


spoke 






as mine — 


' Here 1 and how came I here ? ' and 






Not such as mine, no, nor for such as 


learning it 






her— 


(They told her somewhat rashly as I 






He softly put his arm about lier 


think) 






neck 


At once began to wander and to 






And kiss'd her more than once, till 


wail. 






helpless death 


'Ay, but you know that you must give 






And silence made him bold— nay, but 


me back : 






I wrong him. 


Send ! bid him come ; ' but Lionel was 






He reverenced his dear lady even in 


awav — 






death ; 


Stung by his loss had vanished, none 






But, placing his true hand upon her 


knew where. 






heart, 


' He casts me out,' she wept, and. 






' O, you warm heart,' he moan'd, ' not 


goes'— a wail 






even death 


That seeming something, yet saw 






Can chill you all at once:' then start- 


nothing, born 






ing, thought 


Not from believing mind, but shat- 






His dreams had come again. ' Do I 


ter'd nerve. 






wake or sleep ? 


Yet haunting Julian, as her own re- 






Or am I made immortal, or mv love 


proof 






Mortal once more?' It beat-the 


At some precipitance in her burial. 






heart— it beat: 


Then, when her own true spirit had 






P'aint — but it beat: at which his own 


return'd. 






began 


' Oh yes. and vou,' she said, ' and none 






To pulse with such a vehemence that it 


but you ? 






drown'd 


For you have given me life and love 






The feebler motion underneath his 


agani. 






hand. 


And none but vou yourself shall tell 






But when at last his doubts were 


him ,>f it,- ■ 






satisfied, 


And you shall give me back when he 






He raised her softly from the sepul- 


returns ' 






Mf chre, 


' Stay then a little,' answer'd Julian, Tl? 








And, wrapping her all over with the 


•here. 










cloak 


And keep vourself, none knowing, to 










He came in, and now striding fast, 


yourself; 










and now 


And Iwill do your will. I may not 








V- 


Sitting awhile to rest, but evermore 


stay, 

r \ 1 A 






K 


El \ I 


I \ 1 LTv 












Nu, not an hour ; but send me ii 

of him 
When he returns, and then will 

turn. 
And I will make a solemn offeri 

vou 
To him you k 

replied, 
' And I will do y< 

shall know.' 

Not know ? with such a secret to be 

known. 
But all their house was old and loved 

them both. 
And all the house had known the 

loves of both ; 
Had died almost to serve them any 



' And faintly she 
otir will, and none 



And all 


he la 


id was waste 


and soli 


And thei 

thi 

An hour 


he 


rode away ; 
wo, Camilla 


but after 
s travail 


Upon he 

bo 

Heir of 1 


, and th 
is face a 


It day a boy was 
d land, to Lionel. 



And thus our lonely lover rode 
away, 

And pausing at a hostel in a marsh, 

There fever seized upon him : myself 
was then 

Travelling that land, and meant to 
rest an hour ; 

And sitting down to such a base re- 
past. 

It makes me angry yet to speak of 

I heard a groaning overhead, and 

climb'd 
The moulder'd stairs (for everything 

was vile) 
And in a loft, with none to wait on 

him, 
Found, as it seem'd, a skeleton alone. 
Raving of dead men's dust and beat 

ing hearts. 

A dismal hostel in a dismal land, 
A fiat malarian world of reed and 
rush I 




But there from fever and my care uf 

Sprang up a friendship that may help 

us yet. 
For while we roam'd along the dreary 

And waited for her message, piece by 

jiiece 
I learnt the drearier story of his 

life; 
And, tho' he loved ; 

onel. 
Found that the sudde 

made 
Dwelt in his fancy : did he know her 

worth, 
Her beauty even .' should he not be 

taught, 
Ev'n by the jjrice that others set upon 



nd honor'd Li- 
1 wail his lady 



The 



alue of that jewel he had to 
guard ? 



Suddenly came her notice and 
past, 
I with our lover to his native Bay. 



ind, 



This love is of the brain, the 

the soul : 
TAai makes the sequel pure ; tho' 

some of us 
Beginning at the sequel know no 

Not such am I : and yet I say the 

bird 
That will not hear my call, however 

sweet. 
But if my neighbor whistle answers 

him — 
What matter ? there are others in the 

wood. 
Yet when I saw her (and I thought 

him crazed, 
Tho' not with such a craziness as 

needs 
A cell and keeper), those dark eyes 

of hers— 
Oh ! such dark eyes ! and not her 

eyes alone. 
But all from these to where she 

touch'd on earth. 
For such a craziness as Julian's look'd 
No less than one divine apology. 





The Lover's Tale. 



etly and so modestly she 
her young hero in her 
d. ' You gave me 
had never seen it 
Kiss him, and 
Forgive him, if his name be Julian 



lite ago 
, but for 

once, 
i other father yc 



Talk of lost hopes and broken 
his face, I 
ure hit him 



Sent such a flame inl 

knew 
Some sudden vivid pli 



there. 



But he was all the more resolved 1 



And 



at once to Lionel, praying 



By that great love they both had 

borne the dead. 
To come and revel for one hour with 

him 
Before he left the land for evermore; 
And then to friends — they were not 

many— who lived 
Scatteringly about that lonely land of 

And bad them to a banquet of fare- 



And Julian made a solemn feast : I 

never 
Sat at a costlier ; for all round his 

hall 
From column on to column, as in a 

wood. 
Not such as here— an equatorial one, 
Great garlands swung and blossom'd; 

and beneath. 
Heirlooms, and ancient miracles of 

Art, 
Chalice and salver, wines that. 

Heaven knows when, 
1 suck'd the fire o£ some forgot- 



And kept it thr 
gloom. 



hundred years of 




Yet glowing in a heart of ruby — cups 
Where nymph and God ran ever 

round in gold — 
Others of glass as costly — some with 

gems 
Moveable and resettable at will. 
And trebling all the rest in value— Ah 

heavens I 
Why need I tell you all ? — suffice to 

say 
That whatsoever such a house as his. 
And his was old, has in it rare or fair 
Was brought before the guest : and 

they, the guests, 
Wonder'd at some strange light in 

Julian's eyes 
(I told you that he had his golden 

hour), 
And such a feast, ill-suited as it 

seem'd 
To such a time, to Lionel's loss and 

his 
And that resolved self-exile from a 

He never would revisit, such a feast 
So rich, so strange, and stranger ev'n 

than rich. 
But rich as for the nuptials of a king. 

It one end of the 

Two great funereal curtains, looping 

down. 
Parted a little ere they met the floor. 
About a picture of his lady, taken 
Some years before, and falling hid the 

And just above the parting was a 

lamp : 
So the sweet figure folded round with 

night 
Seem'd stepping out of darkness with 



Well then — our solemn feast— we 

ate and drank. 
And might — the wines being of such 

nobleness — 
Have jested also, but for Julian's eyes, 
And something weird and wild about 

it all : 
What was it.' for our lover seldom 

spoke. 




— 














The Golden Supper. 379 ■- \ 


Scarce touch'd the meats ; but ever 


' But solve me first a doubt. 1 




■ ■ and anon 


I knew a man, nor many years ago ; .11 






A priceless goblet with a priceless 


He had a faithful servant, one who 1 






cAj) wine 


loved 0^ 






Arising, show'd he drank beyond his 


His master more than all on earth 






use- 


beside. 






And when the feast was near an end, 


He falling sick, and seeming close on 






he said : 


death. 
His master would not wait until he 






'There is a custom in the Orient, 


died. 






friends— 


But bad his menials bear him from 






I read of it in Persia— when a man 


the door. 






Will honor those who feast with him, 


And leave him in the public way to 






he brings 


die. 






And shows them whatsoever he ac- 


I knew another, not so long ago. 






counts 


Who found the dying servant, took 






Of all his treasures the most beautiful, 


him home, 






Gold, jewels, arms, whatever it may be. 


And fed, and cherish'd him, and 






This custom ' 


saved his life. 
I ask you now, should this first master 






Pausing here a moment, all 


claim 






The guests broke in upon him with 


His service, whom does it belong to .' 






meeting hands 


him 






And cries about the banquet — ' Beau- 


Who thrust him out, or him who 






tiful ! 


saved his life ? ' 






Who could desire more beauty at a 




1 




feast ? ' 


This question, so flung down before 
the guests, 






The lover answer'd, ' There is more 


And balanced either way by each, at 






than one 


length 






Here sitting who desires it. Laud 


When some were doubtful how the 
law would hold. 






Before my time, but hear me to the 


Was handed over by consent of all 






close. 


To one who had not spoken, Lionel. 






This custom steps yet further when 








the guest 


Fair speech was his, and delicate of 






Is loved and honor'd to the utter- 


phrase. 
And he beginning languidly — his loss 






For after he hath shown him gems or 


Weigh'd on him yet— but Nvarmine; as 






gold. 


he went, 






He brings and sets before him in rich 


Glanced at the point of law, to pass 






guise 


it by. 






That which is thrice as beautiful as 


Affirming that as long as either lived. 






these, 


By all the laws of love and grateful- 






The beauty that is dearest to his 


ness, 






heari- 


The service of the one so saved w.is 






•'O my heart's lord, would I could 


due 






'Y* show you," he says, 


All to the saver— adding, with a " 








■'p:v'n my heart too." And I pro- 


smile, 1 








pose to-night 


The first for many weeks— a semi- 








To show you what is dearest to my 


smile 








heart. 


As at a strong conclusion—' bodv and 






T- 


And niv heart too. 


soul 






y 


B-4- V-l 


I \ \ \L^ 


] 















/CTTI 1 1=^ ? \ 1 fTN 






1 


-. 380 7y/£ Lover's Tale. 


a 




And life and limbs, all his to work his 


Only to use his own, and staring wide 
And hungering for the gilt and - 




■ 


will.' 


- 










jewell'd world 








"^ Then Julian made a secret sign to 


About him, look'd, as he is like to «^ 






me 


prove, 






To bring Camilla down before them 


When Julian goes, the lord of all he 






all. 


saw. 






And crossing her own picture as she 








came, 


' My guests,' said Julian . • you are 






And looking as much lovelier as her- 


honor'dnow 






self 


Ev'n to the uttermost : in her be- 






Is lovelier than all others— on her 


hold 






head 


Of all my treasures the most beauti- 






A diamond circlet, and from under 


ful. 






this 


Of all things upon earth the dearest 






A veil, that seemed no more than 


to me.' 






gilded air. 


Then waving us a sign to seat our- 






Flying by each fine ear, an Eastern 


selves, 






gauze 


Led his dear lady to a chair of state. 






With seeds of gold— so, with that 


And I, by Lionel sitting, saw his 






grace of hers, 


face 






Slow-moving as a wave against the 


Fire, and dead ashes and all fire 






wind, 


again 






That flings a mist behind it in the 


Thrice in a second, felt him tremble 






sun 


too. 






And bearing high in arms the mighty 

babe, 
The younger Julian, who himself was 


And heard him muttering, ' So like, so 

like; 
She never had a sister. I knew none. 










crown'd 


Some cousin of his and hers— O God, 






With roses, none so rosy as himself — 


so like!' 






And over all her babe and her the 


And then he suddenly ask'd her if she 






jewels 


were. 






Of many generations of his house 


She shook, and cast her eyes down. 






Sparkled and tiash'd, for he had 


and was dumb. 






decked them out 


And then some other question'd if 






As for a solemn sacrifice of love- 


she came 






So she came in :— I am long in telling 


From foreign lands, and still she did 

not speak. 
Another, if the boy were hers: but 






I never yet beheld a thing so strange. 






Sad, sweet, and strange together- 


she 






floated in— 


To all their queries answer'd not a 






While all the guests in mute amaze- 


word. 






ment rose— 


Which made the amazement more, 






And slowly pacing to the middle hall. 


till one of them 






Before the board, there paused ancl 


Said, shuddering, ' Her spectre 1 ' 






stood, her breast 


But his friend 






Hard-heaving, and her eyes upon her 


Replied, in half a whisper, ' Not at _„ 






T feet, 


least ,1, 






, 


Not daring yet to glance at Lionel. 


The spectre that will speak if spoken 


. 








But him she carried, him nor lights 


to. 










nor feasts 


Terrible pity, if one so beautiful 










Dazed or amazed, nor eves of men ; 


Prove, as I almost dread to find her. 








I 


who cared 


dumb ! • 


] 




; 1 1 Hv 








_ 




The Golden Supper— To Alfred Tennyson. 



Julian, ^itting by her, answer'd 
ill: 
■ Slie is but dumb, because iu her you 

That faithful servant whom we spoke 

Obedient to her second master now ; 
Which will not last. I have here 

to-night a guest 
So bound tu me by common love and 

What ! shall I bind him more ? in his 
behalf, 

Shall I exceed the Persian, giving him 

That which of all things is the dear- 
est to me. 

Not only showing? and he himself 
pronounced 

That my rich gift is wholly mine to 
give. 



■ NOM 



dumb, and promise all 



Not to break in on what I say by word 
Or whisper, while I show you all 

my heart.' 
And then began the story of his love 
As here to-day, but not so wordily — 
The passionate moment would not 

suffer that- 
Past thro' his visions to the burial ; 

thence 
Down to this last strange hour in his 

own hall ; - 
And then rose up, and with him all 

his guests 
Once more as bv enchantment , all but 

he, 
Lionel, who fain had risen, but fell 

again. 
And sat as if in chains — to whom he 

said : 



■ Take 



:ift, 



ly consul, tor 

your wife ; 
.\nd were it only for the giver's sake. 
And tho' she seem so like the one you 

lost, 

■ her not away so suddenly. 
Lest there be none left here to bring 

her back : 
I leave this land forever.' Here he 

ceased. 




Then taking his dear 
hand, 
And bearing on one arm the noble 




slowly brought them both to L 



And there the widower husband and 
dead wife 

Rush'd each at each with a cry, that 
rather seem'd 

For some new death than for a life re- 
new'd ; 

W'hereat the very babe' began to wail ; 

At once they turn'd, and caught and 
brought him in 

To their charm'd circle, and, half kill- 
ing him 

With kisses, round him closed and 
claspt again. 

But Lionel, when at last he freed him- 
self 

From wife and child, and lifted up a 
face 

All over glowing with the sun of life, 

And love, and boundless thanks — the 
sight of this 

So frightened our good friend, that 
turning to me 

And saying, ' It is over • let us go' — 

There were our horses ready at the 
doors — 

We bad them no farewell, but mount- 
ing these 

He past for ever from his native land ; 

And I with him, my Julian, back to 



TO ALFRED TENNYSON 





MY GRANDSON. 




Goi. 


den-h.a.k'd Ally w 


hose name is 


„ 


Craz 


y with laughter 


and babble 


an 


Now 


earth's new wine, 

that the flower of a year and a half 


out 

Glor 


le blossom, mine 
ous poet who ne 


and mine of r 


nin 


Laugh, for the name a 


t the head of 


m 


May 


SI thou never be w 


ong'd by the r 


am 





Prefatory Sound, Etc.— To Victor Hugo 



PREFATORY SONNET 

TO THE 'NINETEENTH CENTURY.' 
Those that of late had tieeted tar ai 

fast 
To touch all shores, now leaving 



Of 



thers 



skill 
their old craft seaworthy 

■terVl this; where, mindful 

>mates regather round the 

tongue, but with a common 



the 



Ofdi' 

Here, in this roaring moon of daffo- 
dil 

And crocus, to put forth and brave 
the blast ; 

For some, descending from the sacred 



pea 



have 



Of hoar high-templed 

leagued again 
Their lot with ours to rove the world 

about ; 
And some are wilder comrades, sworn 

to seek 
If any golden harbor be for men 
In seas of Death and sunless gulfs of 

Doubt. 



TO THE REV. W. H. BROOK- 
FIELD. 



Old Brooks, who- loved so well to 

mouth my rhymes. 
How oft we two have heard St. Mary's 

chimes ! 
How oft the Cantab supper, host and 

laughter to your 

paced that walk 



Would echo helpl 

jest I 
How oft with him 

of 
Him, the lost light of th 

golden times. 
Who loved y 




dav 



Now both are 




You man of humorous-melancholy 

mark. 
Dead of some inward agony — is it so ? 
Our kindlier, trustier Jaques, past 

away ! 
I cannot laud this life, it looks so 

dark: 
Imni: bvap — dream of a shadow, go — 
God bless you. I shall join you in a 



MONTENEGRO. 

They rose to where their sovran 
eagle sails. 

They kept their faith, their freedom, 
on the height. 

Chaste, frugal, savage, arm'd by day 
and night 

Against the Turk; whose inroad no- 
where scales 

Their headlong passes, but his foot- 
step fails, 

And red with blood the Crescent reels 
from fight 

Before their dauntless hundreds, in 
prone flight 

By thousands down the crags and thro' 
the vales. 

O smallest among peoples ! rough 
rock-throne 

Of Freedom ! warriors beating back 
the swarm 

Of Turkish Islam for five hundred 

Great Tsernogora ! never since thine 

Black ridges drew the cloud and brake 
the storm 



TO VICTOR HUGO. 



Victor in Drama, Victor in Romance, 
Cloud-weaver of phantasmal hopes 



Child-lover; Hard 
rels glance 





Baltic of Erunaiihurh. 



Darkening the wreaths of all that 

would advance, 
Beyond our strait, their claim to be 

thy peers ; 
Weird Titan by thy winter weight of 

years 
As yet unbroken, Stormy voice of 

France ! 
Who dost not love our England — so 

they say ; 




Will make one people ere man's race 



To younger England in the boy my 



TRANSLATIONS, ETC. 



BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH. 

CoNSTANTiNus, Kin^ of the Scots, after 
Iiaving sworn allegiance to Athetstan, al- 
lied himself with the Danes of Ireland un- 
der Anlaf, and invading England, was 
defeated by Athelstan and his brother Ed- 
mund with great slaughter at Brunanburh 
in the year 937. 



Athelstan King, 
Lord among Earls, 
Bracelet-bestower and 
Baron of Barons, 
He with his brother, 
Edmund Atheling, 
Gaining a lifelong 
Glory in battle, 
Slew with the sword-edge 
There by Brunanburh, 
Brake the shield-wall, 
Hew'd the lindenwood,- 
Hack'd the battleshield, 
of Edward with hammer'( 
brands. 



Theirs was a greatness 
Got from their Grandsires- 
Theirs that so often in 




Strife with theii 
Struck for their hoards and their 
hearths and their homes. 



Bow'd the spoiler, 
Bent the Scotsman, 
Fell the shi])crews 
Dooni'd to the death. 
All the field with blood of the fighters 
Elow'd, from when first the 

Sun-star of niorningtide. 
Lamp of the Lord God 
Lord everlasting, 
Glode over earth till the glorious 



There lay many a man 
Marr'd by the javelin. 
Men of the Northland 
Shot over shield. 
There was the Scotsman 
Weary of war. 



We the Wesl-Sa.tons, 

Long as the daylight 

Lasted, in companies 

Troubled the track of the host that 

we hated. 

Grimly with swords that were sharp 

from the grindstone, 
Fiercely we hack'd at the flyers before 





Battle of Brunanbiirh. 



Mightv the Mercian, 
Hard was his hand-play, 
Sparing not any of 
Those that with Anlaf, 
Warriors over the 
Weltering waters 
Borne in the bark's-bosom, 
Drew to this island : 
Doom'd to the death. 



Five young kings put asleep by the 

sword-stroke, 
Seven strong Earls of the army of 



Fell on the 

numbers, 
Shipmen and Scotsmen, 



field, numberless 



Then the Norse leader, 
Dire was his need of it. 
Few were his following, 
Fled to his warship : 

Fleeted his vessel to sea with the 
king in it. 

Saving his life on the fallow flood. 

IX. 

Also the crafty one, 

Constantinus, 

Crept to his North again, 

Hoar-headed hero ! 



Slender warrant had 

He to be proud of 

The welcome of war-knives — 

He that was reft of his 

Folk and his friends that had 

Fallen in conflict, 

Leaving his son too 

Lost in the carnage. 

Mangled to morsels, 

A youngster in war ! 




Slender reason had 
He to be glad of 




Tlie clash of the war-glai' 
Traitor and trickster 
And spurner of i 
He nor had Anlaf 
With armies so broken 
A reason for br.igging 
That they had the better 
In perils of battle 
On places of slaughter — 
The struggle of standards. 
The rush of the javelins, 
The crash of the charges,' 
The wielding of weapons — 
The play that they play'd with 
The children of Edward. 



Then with their nail'd prows 
Parted the Norsemen, a 
Blood-redden 'd relic of 
Javelins over 
The jarring breaker, the 

deep-sea billow. 
Shaping their way toward 

Dyflen^ again. 
Shamed in their souls. 

XIII. 

Also the brethren. 

King and .\theling, 

Each in his glory, 
to his own in his' own West- 
Saxon-land, 

Glad of the war. 



Many a carcase they left to be carrion. 
Many a livid one, manv a sallow-skin — ■ 
Left for the white-tail'd eagle to tear 

it, and 
Left for the horny-nibb'd raven to 

rend it, and 
Gave to the garbaging war-hawk to 

gorge it, and 
That gray beast, the wolf of the weald. 



Never had huger 
Slaughter of heroes 



the gathering of 





Achilles over the Trench — Sir John Fn 



Slain by the sword-edge — 
Such as old writers 
Have writ of in histories — 
Hapt in this isle, since 
Up from the East hither 
Saxon and Angle from 
Over the broad billow 
Broke into Britain with 
Haughty war-workers who 
Harried the Welshman, when 
Earls that were lured by the 
Hunger of glory gat 
Hold of the land. 



ACHILLES OVER THE 
TRENCH. 



So saying, light-foot Iri 


s pass'd away. 


Then rose Achilles dea 


• to Zeus; and 


round 




The warrior's puiss 


uit shoulders 



Pallas flung 
Her fringed asgis, and around his 

head 
The glorious goddess wreath'd a 

golden cloud, 
And from it lighted an all-shining 

flame. 
As when a smoke from a city goes to 

heaven 
Far off from out an island girt by 

foes. 
All day the men contend in grievous 



From their own ci 



but with set of 
d aloft the 



Their fires flame thickl 

glare 
Flies streaming, if perchance the 

neighbors round 
May see, and sail to help them in the 

war ; 
So from his head the splendor went 

to heaven. 
From wall to dyke he slept, he stood. 

The Achseans — honoring his wise 

mother's word — 
There standing, shouted, and Pallas 

far awav 





Call'd ; and a boundless panic 

the foe. 
For like the clear voice when a tiun 

pet shrills, 
Blown by the fierce beleaguerers of a 

So rang the clear voice of yEakides ; 
And when the brazen cry of .^akides 
Was heard among the Trojans, all 

their hearts 
Were troubled, and the fuU-maned 

horses whirl'd 
The chariots backward, knowing 

griefs at hand ; 
And sheer-astounded were the chariot- 
eers 
To see the dread, unweariable fire 
That always o'er the great Peleion's 

head 
Burn'd, for the bright-eyed goddess 

made it burn. 
Thrice from the dyke he sent his 

mighty shout. 
Thrice backward reel'd the Trojans 

And there and then twelve of their 

noblest died 
Among their spears and chariots. 



TO PRINCESS FREDERICA ON 
HER MARRIAGE. 

O YOU that were eyes and light to 
the King till he past away 
From the darkness of life — 
He saw not his daughter — he blest her: 
the blind King sees you to-day, 
He blesses the wife. 



SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. 



Not here ! the white North has thy 
bones ; and th6u, 
Heroic sailor-soul. 
Art passing on thine happier voyage 

toward no 




arthly pole. 




To Dante— To E. Fitzgcrahi. 



TO DANTE. 



MG, that hast reign'd six hundred 

years, and grown 
power, and ever growest, since 
thine own 




TIRESIAS 

AND OTHER POEMS. 



TO E. FITZGERALD. 

Old Fitz, who from your suburb 
grange, 

Where once 1 tarried (or a while. 
Glance at the wheeling Orb of change, 

KviA greet it with a kindly smile ; 
Whom yet I see as there you sit 

Beneath your sheltering garden- 

And watch your doves about you fiit. 

And plant on shoulder, hand and 
knee. 
Or on your head their rosy feet, 

As if thev knew your diet spares 
Whatever iiioved in that full sheet 

Let down to Peter at liis prayers ; 
Who live on milk and meal and 
grass ; 

And once fur ten long weeks I tried 
Your taijif (if Pythagoras, 

And scemVl at first 'a thing en- 



(As Shakespeare has it) airy-light 
To float above the ways of men. 
Then fell froin that half-spiritual 
height 
Chill'd, till I tasted fiesh again 
One night when earth was winter- 
black. 
And all the heavens flash'd in 
frost; 
And on me, half-asleep, came back 
That wholesome heat the blood 
had lost, 




And set me 
And glac 
roll'd 
To meet me long-arm'd vines with 
graijes 
Of Eshcol hugeness ; for the cold 
Without, and warmth within me, 
wrought 
To mould the dream ; but none can 



say 
That Lenten fare make 
thought. 
Who reads your golde 



Lenten 



Eastern 



lay, 
Than which I know no 

In English more divinely well ; 
A planet equal to the sun 

Which cast it, that large infidel 
Your Omar ; and vour Omar drew 

Full-handed plaudits from our best 
In modern letters, and from two, 

Old friends outvaluing all the rest. 
Two voices heard on earth no more ; 

But we old friends are still alive. 
And I am nearing seventy-four, 

While you have touch'd at seventy- 

And so I send a birthday line 

Of greeting ; and my 'son, who dipt 
In some forgotten book of mine 

With sallow scraps of manuscript. 
And dating many a year ago. 

Has hit on this, which you will take 
My Fitz, and welcome, as I know 

Less for its own than for the sake 





recalling gracious tiir 
When, in our younger 



n my rhymes, 
pleasure in your 



TIRESIAS. 

I WISH I were as in the years of old, 
While yet the blessed daylight made 

itself 
Ruddy thro' both the roofs of sight, 

and woke 
These eyes, now dull, but then so 

keen to seek 
The meanings ambush'd under all 

they saw, 
The flight of birds, the flame of sacri- 

What omens may foreshadow fate to 

And woman, and the secret of the 

Gods. 
My son, the Gods, despite of 

human prayer. 
Are slower to forgive than human 

kings. 
The great God, Ares, burns in anger 

still 
Against the guiltless heirs of him 

from Tyre, 
Our Cadmus, out of whom thou art, 

who found 
Beside the springs of Dirce, smote, 

and still'd 
Thro' all its folds the multitudinous 

beast, 
The dragon, which our trembling 

fathers call'd 
The God's own son. 

A tale, that told to me. 
When but thine age, by age as winter- 
white 
.\s mine is now, amazed, but made 

me yearn 
Fur larger glimpses of that more than 



Which rolls the heavens, and lifts, 

and lays the deep, 
Yet loves and hates with mortal hates 




And moves unseen among the ways 

of men. 
Tlien, in my wanderings all the 

lands that lie 
Subjected to the Heliconian ridge 
Have heard this footstep fall, altho' 




Was 

With 



my 



cale the 



trange hope 
nearer God. 
One naked peak — the s 



To 



ing< 



lb from 
r there 
all the 



va\h 



highest of the 
see the 
sister of the 
the dark, and 
eys with her 
ago, five-fold 
dead 



shafts- 
There once, bi 

thy term 
Of years, I lay ; the wiin 

for heat ; 
The noonday crag made the hand 

burn; and sick 
For shadow — not one bush was near 

— I rose 
Following a torrent till its myriad 

falls 
Found silence in the hollows under- 
neath. 
There in a secret olive-glade I saw 
Pallas Athene climbing from the bath 
In anger ; yet one glittering foot dis- 



The 



knee ■ 



Against the margin flowers; a dread- 
ful light 

Came from, her golden hair, her golden 
helm 

And all her golden armor on the 
grass. 

And from her virgin breast, and virgin 
eyes 

Remaining fixt on mine, till mine grew 
dark 

For ever, and I heard a voice that 

' Henceforth be blind, for thou hast 

And sjjeak the truth that no man ^ 
believe.' 
Son, in the hidden world of sight, 
that lives 




Behind this darlcness, I behold her 1 Could tluit stand forth, and 

still, 
lievond all work of those who 



the 



ne. 



ISevond all dreams of Godlike woman- 
hood, 

Ineffable beauty, out of whom, at a 
glance. 

And as it were, perforce, upon me 
flash'd 

The power of prophesying — but to me 

No power — so chain'd and coupled 
with the curse 

Of blindness and their unbelief, who 



And heard not, when I spake of 
famine, plague, 

•Shrine-shattering earthquake, fire, 
flood, tli.underbolt. 

And angers of the Gods for evil done 

And expiation lack'd — no power on 
P'ate, 

Theirs, or mine own ! for when the 
crowd would roar 

For blood, for war, whose issue was 
their doom. 

To cast wise words among the multi- 
tude 

\\^as flinging fruil 



lions 



nor, 



Of civil outbreak. 



the 



Would each waste each, and' bring on 

both the yoke 
Of stronger states, was mine the voice 

to curb 
The madness of our cities, and their 



kin" 



Who. 



turn'd upon his heel to 




My warning that the tyranny of one 
Was prelude to the tyranny' of all ? 
My counsel that the tyranny of all 
Led backward to the tyranny of one ? 
This power hath work'd no good to 

aught that lives. 
And these blind hands were useless 

in their wars. 
O therefore that the unfulfill'd desire. 
The grief for ever born from griefs to 

be, 
Tlie boundless yearning of the 
rophet's heart — 




To some great citizen, win all praise 

from all 
Who past it, saying, ' That was he ! ' 

in vain ! 
Virtue must shape itself in deed, and 

those 
Whom weakness or necessity have 

cramp'd 
Within themselves, immerging, each, 

his urn 
In his own well, draw solace as he 

may. 
Menceceus, thou hast eyes, and I 

can hear 
Too plainly what full tides of onset 

sap 
Our seven high gates, and what a 

weight of war 
Rides on those ringing a.\les ! jingle 

of bits. 
Shouts, arrows, tramp of the horn- 
footed horse 
That grind the glebe to powder ! 

■Stony showers 
Of that ear-stunning hail of Ares 

crash 
Along the sounding walls. Above, 

below. 
Shock after shock, the song-built 

towers and gates 
Reel, bruised and butted with the 

shuddering 
War-thunder of iron rams; and from 



The city comes a muri 

joy. 

Lest she be taken capti 



uir void of 
e — maidens, 
babblers of 



And mothers wil 

the dawn. 
And oldest age in shadow from the 

night. 
Falling about their shrines before 

their Gods, 
And wailing ' Save us.' 

And they wail to thee ! 
These eyeless eyes, that 

thine own, 
See thi.s. that only in thy virtue lies 
The saving of our Thebes ; for, yes- 

ter-night. 














A1T1 1 i -> 9 1 UOn 


A 




t 


Tiresias. 389 


To me, the great God Ares, whose 


Heard from the roofs by night, will 




. 


one bliss 


murmur thee 


. 








Is war, and human sacrifice— himself 


To thine own Thebes, while Thebes 








cAfl Blood-red from battle, spear and 


thro' thee shall stand «Aj 






helmet tipt 


Firm-based with all her Gods. 






With stormy light as on a mast at 


The Dragon's cave 






sea, 


Half hid, they tell me, now in flowing 






Stood out before a darkness, crying 


vines— 






'Thebes, 


Where once he dwelt and whence he 






Thy Thebes shall fall and perish, for 


roll'd himself 






I loathe 


At dead of night— thou knowest, and 






The seed of Cadmus— yet if one of 


that smooth rock 






these 


Before it, altar-fashion'd, where of 






By his own hand— if one of these ' 


late 






My son, 


The woman-breasted Sphinx, with 






No sound is breathed so potent to 


wings drawn back, 






coerce. 


Folded her lion paws, and look'd to 






And to conciliate, as their names who 


Thebes. 






dare 


There blanch the bones of whom she 




1 


For that sweet mother land which 


slew, and these 






gave them birth 


Mi.xt with her own, because the fierce 






Nobly to do, nobly to die. Their 
names, 


beast found 
A wiser than herself, and dash'd her- 






Graven on memorial columns, are a 


self 






song 


Dead in her rage : but thou art wise 






Heard in the future; few, but more 


enough, 






than wall 


Tho' young, to love thy wiser, blunt 






And rampart, their examples reach a 


the ?urse 






hand 


Of Pallas, hear, and tho' I speak the 






Far thro' all years, and everywhere 


truth 






they meet 


Believe I speak it, let thine own hand 






And kindle generous purpose, and the 


strike 






strength 


Thy youthful pulses into rest and 






To mould it into action pure as 


quench 






theirs. 


The red God's anger, fearing not to 






Fairer thy fate than mine, if life's 


]->lunge 






best end 


Thv torch of life in darkness, rather— 






Be to end well! and thou refusing 


' thou 






this, 


Rejoicing that the sun, the moon, the 






Unvenerable will thv memorv be 


stars 






While men shall move the lips : but 


Send no such light upon the ways of 






if thou dare— 


men 






Thou, one of these, the race of Cad- 


As one great deed. 






mus—then 


Thither, my .son, and there 






No stone is fitted in von marble 


Thou, that hast never known the 






girth 


embrace of love. 






,^ Whose echo shall not tongue thy 


Offer thv maiden life. 






T glorious doom. 


This useless hand ! <^ 








Nor in this pavement but shall ring 


I felt one warm tear fall upon it. 










thy name 


Gone ! 










To every hoof that clangs it, and the 


He will achieve his greatness. 










siM-ings 


But for me. 








1 


(.)f Dirce laving yonder battle-plain. 


I would that I were gather'd to my rest. 


] 




-^J 13 ^'1 I v^ 












And mingled with the famous kings 
of old, 

On whom about their ocean-islets 
flash 

The faces of the Gods— the wise 
man's wofd. 

Here trampled by the populace under- 
foot, 

There crown'd with worship — and 
these eyes will find 

The men 1 knew, and watch the char- 
iot whirl 

About the goal again, and hunters 
race 

The shadowy lion, and the warrior- 
kings,' 

In height and prowess more than hu- 
man, strive 

Again for glory, while the golden lyre 

Is ever sounding in heroic ears 

lieroic hymns, and every way tlie 
vales 

Wind, clouded with the grateful in- 

Of those who mix all udor to the 

Gods 
On one far height in one far-shinine 



' One height and one 

And while I fanci 
For this brief idyll wc 

A less diffuse 'and c 
And would defend hi; 

If I should deem it 
The tollins^of his finieral bell 

Broke uu mv I'anan I'uadise, 
And mixt the dream ol classic tir 

And all the phanlums of 
dream. 



judgn 



With 



rhyn 




With easy laughter, find the gate 
Is boiled, and the master gone. 

Gone into darkness, that full light 
Of friendship 1 past, in sleep, a.- 

By night, into the deeper night ! 




The deeper night ? A clearer da ,■ 
Than our poor twilight dawn on 
earth — 

If night, what barren toil to be I 
What life, so maim'd by night, were 
worth 

Our living out? Not mine to me 
Remembering all the golden hours 

Now silent, and so many dead. 
And him tne last ; and laying flowers, 

This wreath, above his honor'd head 
And praymg that, when I from hence, 

Shall lade with him into the un- 
known, 
My close of earth's experience 

May prove as peaceful as his own. 



THE WRECK. 



Hide me. Mother! my Fathers be- 
long'd to the church of old, 

I am driven by storm and sin and 
death to the ancient fold, 

I cling to the Catholic Cross once 
more, to the Faith that saves. 

My brain is full of the crash of 
wrecks, and the roar of waves. 

My life itself is a wreck, I have sul- 
lied a noble name, 

I am flung from the rushing tide of 
the world as a waif of shame, 

I am roused by the wail of a child, 
and awake to a livid light. 

And a ghastlier face than ever has 
haunted a grave by night, 

I would hide from the storm without, 
I would flee from the storm 

I would make my life one prayer for 

I was the tempter, Mother, and mine 

was the deeper fall ; 
I will sit at your feet, I will hide my 

face, I will tell you all. 



He that they gave me to. Mother, 
heedless and innocent bride — 

I never have wrong'd his heart, 
have only wounded his pride- 





blood and the Jew 

sagcd, stately and tall — 
Duking man never stept 
rnncc's hall. 

lis anger was kin- 



And 



fea 



be 



loved by the women they say. 
And I coulcl have loved him too, if 

the ijlossom can doat on the 

blight, 
Or the young green leaf rejoice in the 

frost that sears it at night ; 
He would open the books tliat I 

prized, and toss them aw.iy 

Repell'd by the magnet of Art to the 

which my nature was drawn, 
The word of the Poet by whom the 

deeps of the world are stirr'd. 
The music that robes it in language 

beneath and beyond the word ! 
My Shelley would fall from my hands 

when he cast a contemptuous 

glance 
From where he was poring over his 

Tables of Trade and Finance ; 
My hands, when I heard him coming, 

would drop from the chords or 

the keys, 
lint ever I fail'd to please him, how- 
ever I strove to please — 
All day long far-off in the cloud of the 

city, and there 
Lost, head and heart, in the chances 

of dividend, consol, and share — 
And at home if I sought for a kindly 

caress, being woman and weak. 
His formal kiss fell chill as a flake of 

snow on the cheek : 
And so, when I bore him a girl, when 

I held it aloft in my jov. 
He look'd at it coldiv, and said to me 

'Pitvit isn't .I'bov.' 
The one thing given me, to love and 

to live for, glanced at in scorn ! 
The child that I felt I could die for— 

as if she were baselv born ! 
I had lived a wild-flower' life, I was 

planted now in a tomb, 
The daisy will shut to the shadow, I 

closed my heart to the gloom ; 





I threw myself all abroad— I would 
jjlay my part with the young 

By the low foot-lights of the world — 
and I caught the wreath that 
was flung. 



III. 

not — however their 
ay have babbled of 

limal vileness, for all 



Mother, I ha 
tongues 



Sinn'd thro' an ; 

but a dwarf was he. 
And all but a hunchback too; and I 

look'd at him, first, askance. 
With pity — not he the knight for an 

amorous girl's romance ! 
Tho' wealthy enough to have bask'd 

in the light ,of a dowerless 

smile. 
Having lands at home and abroad in 

a rich West-Indian isle ; 
But I came on him once at a ball, the 

heart of a listening crowd — 
Why, what a brow was there I he was 

seated — speaking aloud 
To women, the flower of the time, 

and men at the helm of state- 
Flowing with easy greatness and 

touching on all things great, 
.Science, philosophy, song — till I felt 

myself ready to weep 
For 1 knew not what, when I heard 

that voice, — as mellow and 

deep 
As a psalm by a mighty master and 

peal'd from an organ, — roll 
Rising and falling — for, Mother, the 

voice was the voice of the 

soul ; 
And the sun of the soul made day in 

the dark of his wonderful eyes. 
Here was the hand that would help 

me, would heal me — the heart 

that was wise I 
And he, poor man, when he learnt 

that I hated the ring I wore. 
He helpt me with death, and he heal'd 

me with sorro^v for evermore. 



For I broke the bond, 
nurse had brough 





The small sweet face was flush'd, but 

it coo'd to the Mother and 

smiled. 
' Anything ailing,' I ask'd her, ' with 

baby ? ' She shook her head. 
And the Motherless Mother kiss'd it, 

and turn'd in her haste and 

fled. 



Low warm winds had gently breathed 
us away from the land — 

Ten long sweet summer days upon 
deck, sitting hand in hand — 

When he clothed a naked mind with 
the wisdom and wealth of his 



nvself down as a slave 
tellectual throne. 

English gold 



own. 
And I bow'd 

to his intell 
When he coin'd 

some treasure of classical song, 
When he flouted a statesman's error, 

or flamed at a public wrong. 
When he rose as it were on the wings 

of an eagle beyond me, and 

past 
Over the range and the change of the 

world from the first to the 

last. 
When he spoke of his tropical home 

in the canes by the purple 

tide, 
And the high star-crowiis of his 

palms on the deep-wooded 

mountain side, 
And cliffs all robed in lianas that 

dropt to the brink of liis bay. 
And trees like the towers of a mins- 
ter, the sons of a winterless 

day. 
' Paradise there ! ' so he said, but I 

seem'd in Paradise then 
With the first great love I had felt for 

the first and greatest of men ; 
Ten long davs of summer and sin — if 

it must be s.i— 
But days of a larger light than I ever 

again shall know- 
Days that will glimmer, I fear, thro' 

life to my latest breath ; 
' No frost there,' 90 he said, ' as in 

truest Love no Death.' 





bird wi 



Mother, one mornin 
warble plainti 

Perch'd on the shrouds', and then fell 
fluttering down at my feet ; 

I took it, he made it a cage, we fon- 
dled it, Stephen and"!, 

But it died, and I thought of the 
child for a moment, I scarce 
know whv. 



But if siu be sin, not inherited fate, as 

many will say. 
My sin to my desolate little one found 

me at sea on a day. 
When her orphan wail came borne in 

the shriek of a growing wind. 
And a voice rang out in the thunders 

of Ocean and Heaven ' Thou 

hast sinn'd.' 
And down in the cabin were we, for 

the towering crest of the tides 
Plunged on the vessel and swept in a 

cataract off from her sides. 
And ever the great storm grew with a 

howl and a hoot of the blast 
In the rigging, voices of hell — then 

came the crash of the mast. 
' The wages of sin is death,' and there 

I began to weep, 
'I am the Jonah, the crew should 

cast me into the deep. 
For ah God. what a heart was mine to 

forsake her even for Vou.' 
' Never the heart among women,' he 

said, ' more tender and true.' 
' The heart ! not a mother's heart, 

when I left my darling alone.' 
' Comfort vourself, for the heart of the 

father will care for his own.' 
'The heart of the father will s])urn 

her,' I cried, 'for the sin of the 

wife. 
The cloud of the mother's shame will 

enfold her and darken her life.' 
Then his pale face twitch'd ; ' O Ste- 

])heu, I love you, I love you, 

and yet '— 
As I leau'd awav from his arms — 

' would c;od, we had never 





And he s])oke not — only the storm ; 

till after a little, ryearn'd 
For his voice again, and he caii'd to 

me ' Kiss me! ' and there — as 

I turned— 
' The heart, the heart ! ' I kiss'd him, 

I clung to the sinking form, 
And the storm went roaring above us, 

and he — was out of the storm. 



And then, then, Mother, the ship 

stagger'd under a thunderous 

shock. 
That shook us asunder, as if she had 

struck and crash'd on a rock ; 
For a huge sea smote every soul from 

the decks of The Falcon but 

one ; 
All of them, all but the man that was 

lash'd to the helm had gone ; 
And I fell — and the storm and the 

days went by, but I knew no 

more — 
Lost myself — lay like the dead by the 

dead on the cabin floor. 
Dead to the death beside me, and lost 

to the loss that was mine. 
With a dim dream, now and then, of 

a hand giving bread and wine. 
Till I woke from the trance, and the 

ship stood still, and the skies 

were blue, ' 
But the face I had known, O Mother, 

was not the face that I knew. 

IX. 
The strange misfeaturing mask that I 

saw so amazed me, that I 
Stumbled on deck, half mad. I 

would fling mvself over and 

die ! 
But one — he was waving a flag — the 

one man left on the wreck — 
' Woman ' — he graspt at my arm — 

' stav there ' — I crouch 'd upon 

deck— 
' We are sinking, and yet there's 

hope : look yonder,' he cried. 





Of a beaten babe, till I saw that a 
boat was nearing us — then 

All on a sudden I thought, I shall 
look on the child again. 



They lower'd me down the side, and 
there in the boat I lay 

With sad eyes fixt on the lost sea- 
home, as we glided awav. 

And I sigh'd, as the low daVk hull 
dipt under the smiling main, 

' Had I stay'd with him, I liad now — 
with him — been out of my pain.' 



They took us aboard : the crew were 
gentle, the captain kind ; 

But / was the lonely slave of an of- 
ten-wandering mind ; 

For whenever a rougher gust might 
tumble a stormier wave, 

' O Stephen,' I moan'd, ' I am coming 
to thee in thine Ocean-grave.' 

And again, when a balmier breeze 
curl'd over a peacefuller sea, 

I found myself moaning again ' O 
child, I am coming to thee.' 

XII. 
The broad white brow of the Isle — 

that bay with the color'd sand — 
Rich was the rose of sunset there, as 

we drew to the land ; 
All so quiet the ripple would hardly 

blanch into spray 
At the feet of the cliff; and I pray'd 

—'my child'— for I still coGld 

prav — 
' May her life be as blissfully calm, be 

never gloom'd by the curse 
Of a sin, not hers I ' 

Was it well with the child ? 

I wrote to the nurse 

Who had borne my flower on her 

hireling heart ; and an answer 

came 
Not from the nurse — nor yet to the 

wife — to her maiden name I 
I shook as I onen'd the letter — I knew 

th " " 





Despair. 



And from 



scrap, dipt out of the 

' deaths ' in a paper, fell. 
' Ten long sweet summer days' of 

fever, and want of care I 
And gone — that day of the storm — 

O Mother, she came to mc 

there. 



DESPAIR. 

A MAN and his wife having lost faith in a 
God, and hope of a life to come, and being 
utterly miserable in this, resolve to end 
themselves by drowning. The woman is 
drowned, but the man rescued by a minis- 
ter of the sect he had abandoned. 

I. 

Is it you, that preach'd in the cha])el 
there looking over the sand? 

Follovv'd us too that night, and 
dogg'd us, and drew me to 
land .' 



What did I feel that night.' You are 

curious. How should I tell ? 
Does it matter so much what I felt.' 

You rescued me — yet — was it 

well 
That you came ur 

between me 

my doom, 
Three days since, three more dark 

days of the Godless gloom 
Of a life without sun, without health, 

without hope, without any 

delight 
In anything here upon earth.' but'ah 

God, that night, that night 
When the rolling eyes of the light- 
house there on the fatal neck 
Of land running out into rock — they 

had saved many hundreds from 



sh'd for, uncall'd, 
nd the deep and 



wreck- 
Glared on our way toward death, I 

remember I thought,, as we 

past, 
Does it matter how many they saved ? 

we are all of us wreck'd at 





Do you fear.'' and there came thr 
the roar of the breaker 
whisper, a breath. 

Fear .' am I not with you ? I a 
frighted at life not death.' 



And the suns of the limitless Universe 

sparkled and shone in the 

sky. 
Flashing with fires as of God, but we 

knew that their light was a 

lie — 
Bright as with deathless hope — but, 

however they sparkled and 

shone. 
The dark little worlds running round 

theiu were worlds of woe like 

No soul in the heaven above, no soul 
on the earth below, 

A fiery scroll written over with lamen- 
tation and woe. 

IV. 

See, we were nursed in the drear 
nightfold of your fatalist creed. 

And we turn'd to the growing dawn, 
we had hoped for a dawn 
indeed. 

When the light of a Sun th.i 



iild 



the 



ghosts of the Past, 
.*\nd the cramping creeds that had 

madden'd the peoples would 

vanish at last. 
And we broke away from the Christ, 

our human brother'and friend, 
For He spoke, or it seem'd that He 

spoke, of a Hell without help, 

without end. 



Hoped for a dawn and it came, bul 

the promise had faded awav; 
We had past from a cheerless nighl 

to the glare of a dr 
He is only a cloud and a smoke \ 

was once a pillar of fire. 
The guess of a worm in the dust 

the shadow of its desire — 





Despair. 



Of a worm as it writhes in a world of 
the weak trodden down by the 
strong, 

Of a dying worm in a world, all 
massacre, murder, and wrong. 



O we poor orphans of nothing — alone 

on that lonely shore — 
Born of the brainless Natnre who 

knew not that which she bore ! 
Trusting no longer that earthly flower 

would be heavenly fruit — 
Come from the brute, poor souls — no 

souls — and to die with the 

brute 



Nay, but I am not claiming your 

pity : I know you of old — 
Small pity for those that have ranged 

from the narrow warmth of 

your fold. 
Where you bawl'd the dark side of 

your faith and a God of eternal 

rage. 
Till you flung us back on ourselves, and 

the human heart, and the Age. 



But pity— the Pagan held it a vice — 
was in her and in me. 

Helpless, taking the place of the pity- 
ing God that should be I 

Pity for all that aches in the grasp of 
an idiot power. 

And pity for our own selves on an 
earth that bore not a flower ; 

Pity for all that suffers on land or in 
air or the deep, 

.-\nd pity for our own selves till we 
long'd for eternal sleep. 



' Lightly step over the sands ! the 
waters — you hear them call ! 
.ife with its anguish, and horrors, 
and errors — away with it all ! ' 

And she laid her hand in my own — 
she was alwavs loval and 





Till the points of the foam in the dusk 

came playing about our feet. 
There was a strong sea-current would 

sweep us out to the main. 
' Ah God ' tho' I felt as I spoke I was 

taking the name in vain — 
'Ah God' and we turn'd to each 

other, we kiss'd, we embraced, 

she and I, 
Knowing the Love we were used to 

believe everlasting would die : 
We had read their know-nothing 

books and we lean'd to the 

darker side — 
Ah God, should we find Him, per- 
haps, perhaps, if we died, if we 

died; 
We never had found Him on earth, 

this earth is a fatherless Hell — 
' Dear Love, for ever and ever, for 

ever and ever farewell,' 
Never a cry so desolate, not since the 

world began, 
Never a kiss so sad, no, not since the 

coming of man ! 



But the blind wave cast me ashore, and 

you saved me, a valueless life. 
Not a grain of gratitude mine ! You 

have parted the man from the 

wife. 
I am left alone on the land, she is all 

alone in the sea; 
If a curse meant ought, I would curse 

you for not having let me be. 



Visions of youth — for my brain v,as 

drunk with the water, it seems ; 
I had past into perfect quiet at length 

out of pleasant dreams, 
And the transient trouble of drowning 

— what was it when match'd 

with the pains 
Of the hellish heat of a wretched life 

rushing back thro' the veins? 

XII. 
Why should I live? one son had 
forged on his father and fled. 




Dfspa 



if I believed in a God, I would 

thank him, the other is dead, 

lid there was a baby-girl, that had 

never look'd on the light : 

Happiest she of us all, for she past 

from the night to the night. 

XIII. 

But the crime, if a crime, of her eldest- 
born, her glory, her boast, 

Struck hard at the tender heart of the 
mother, and broke it almost ; 

Tho', glory and shame dying out for 
ever in endless time. 

Does it matter so much whether 
crown'd for a virtue, or hang'd 
for a crime .' 

XIV. 
And ruin'd by him, by him, I stood 

there, naked, amazed 
In a world of arrogant opulence, 

fear'd myself turning crazed, 



With a grief that could only be cured, 
if cured, bv the surgeon's 
knife,— 



Why should we bear with an hour of 
torture, a moment of pain, 

If every man die for ever, if all his 
griefs are in vain. 

And the homeless planet at length 
will be wheel'd thro' the silence 
of space. 

Motherless evermore of an ever- 
vanishing race. 

When the worm shall have writhed 
its last, and its last brother- 
worm will have fled 

From the dead fossil skull that is left 
in the rocks of an earth that 
is dead ? 



Have I crazed myself over their horri- 
ble infidel writings ? O yes, 

For these are the new dark ages, you 
see, of the popular press, 





And Doubt is the lord of this dung- 
hill and croxvs to the sun and 

the moon, 
Till the Sun and the Moon of our 

science are both of them turn'd 

into blood. 
And Hope will have broken her 

heart, running after a shadow 

of good ; 
For their knowing and know-nothing 

books are scatter'd from hand 

to hand— 
Wc have knelt in your know-all 

chapel too looking over the 

sand. 



What! I should call on that Infinite 

Love that has served us so 

well .' 
Infinite cruelty rather that made ever- 
lasting Hell, 
Made us, foreknew us, foredoom'd us, 

and does what he will with his 

own ; 
Better our dead brute mother who 

never has heard us groan ! 

XVIII. 

Hell ? if the souls of men were im- 
mortal, as men have been told, 

The lecher would cleave to his lusts, 
and the miser would yearn fot* 
his gold, 

And so there were Hell for ever! but 
were there a God as you say. 

His Love would have power over Hell 
till it utterly vanish'd away. 



Ah yet — I have had some glimmer, at 

times, in my gloomiest woe. 
Of a God behind all— after all— the 

great God for aught that I 

know ; 
But the (Jod of Love and of Hell 

together — they cannot be 

thought. 





The Ancient Sn, 



If there be such a God, may the 
:at God curse him and bring 
1 to nought ! 



Blasphemy ! whose is the fault ? is it 

mine ? for why would you save 
A madman to vex you with wretched 

words, who is best in his grave ? 
Blasphemy ! ay, why not, being damn'd 

beyond hope of grace ? 
() would I were yonder with her, and 

away from your faith and your 

face ! 
Blasphemy ! true ! I have scared you 

pale with my scandalous talk, 
But the blasphemy to my mind lies all 

in the way that vou walk. 



Hence ! she is gone ! can I stay ? can 

I breathe divorced from the 

Past? 
Vou needs must have good lynx-eyes 

if I do not escape you at last. 
Our orthodox coroner doubtless will 

find it a felo-de-se, 
And the stake and the cross-road, 

fool, if you will, does it matter 

to me .' 



THE ANCIENT SAGE. 

A THOUSAND summers ere the time 

of Christ 
From out his ancient city came a Seer 
Whom one that loved, and honor'd 

him, and yet 
Was no disciple, richly garb'd, but 

worn 
From wasteful living, foUow'd — i\i 

his hand 
A scroll of verse — till that old man 

before 
A cavern whence an affluent fountain 

pour'd 
From darkness into daylight, tum'd 

and spoke. 




From yon dark cave, but, son, the 

source is higher. 
Von summit half-a-league in air — and 

higher. 
The cloud that hides it — higher still, 

the heavens 
Whereby the cloud was moulded, and 

whereout 
The cloud descended. Force is from 

the heights. 
I am wearied of our city, son, and go 
To spend my one last year among the 

hills. 
What hast thou there .^ Some death- 
song for the Ghouls 
To make their banquet relish .' let me 

read. 

" How far thro' all the bloom and 
brake 

That nightingale is heard I 
W hat power but the bird's could make 

This music in the bird ? 
How summer-bright are yonder skies. 

And earth as fair in hue ! 
And yet what sign of aught that lies 

Behind the green and blue ? 
But man to-day is fancy's fool 

As man hath ever been. 
The nameless Power, or Powers, that 
rule 

Were never heard or seen." 

If thou would'st hear the Nameless, 

and wilt dive 
Into the Temple-cave of thine own 

self, 
There, brooding by the central altar, 

thou 
May'st haply learn the Nameless hath 

a voice. 
By which thou wilt abide, if thou be 



As if th( 



li newest, tho' thou canst 




1 might bu 



For Knowledge is the swallow on the 
lake 

That sees and stirs the surface- 
shadow there 

But never yet hath dipt into the 
abysm. 

The Abysm of all .Abvsms, beneath, 
within 





The Ancient Sage. 



The blue of sky and sea, the green of 
earth, 

And in the million-millionth of a 
grain 

Which cleft and cleft again for ever- 
more, 

And ever vanishing, never vanishes. 

To me, my son, more mystic than 
myself. 

Or even than the Nameless is to me. 
And when thou sendest thy free 
soul thro' heaven, 

Nor understandest bound nor bound- 
lessness. 

Thou seest the Nameless of the hun- 
dred names. 
And if the Nameless should with- 
draw from all 

Thy frailtv counts most real, all thy 
world 

Might vanish like thy shadow in the 
dark. 

'• And since — from when this earth 
began— 

The Nameless never came 
.\niong us, never spake with man, 

And never named the Name " — 

Thou canst not prove the Nameless, 
O my son, 

Nor canst thou prove the world thou 
movest in. 

Thou canst not prove that thou art 
body alone, 

Nor canst thou prove that thou art 
spirit alone, 

Nor canst thou prove that thou art 
both in one : 

Thou canst not prove thou art im- 
mortal, no 

Nor vet that thou art mortal — nay my 
son. 

Thou canst not prove that I, who 
speak with thee, 

Am not thyself in converse with thy- 
self. 

For nothing worthy proving can be 
proven, 

Mor yet disproven : wherefore thou 
be wise, 

Cleave ever to the sunnier side of 





And cling to Faith beyond the forms 
of "Faith ! 

She reels not in the storm of warring 
words. 

She brightens at the clash of ' Yes ' 
and ' No," 

She sees the Best that glimmers thro' 
the Worst, 

She feels the Sun is hid but for a 
night. 

She spies the summer thro' the win- 
ter bud. 

She tastes the fruit before the blossom 
falls. 

She hears the lark within the song- 
less egg. 

She finds the fountain where they 
wail'd ' Mirage ' ! 



What Power ? 



aught akin to 



The mind in me and you ? 
Or power as of the Ciuds gone 
blind 
Who see not wh.nt they do.>" 

But some in yonder city hold, my son. 
That none bat Gods could build this 

house of ours. 
So beautiful, vast, various, so bevond 
All work of man, yet, like all work of 

man, 
A beauty with defect till That 

which knows. 
And is not known, but felt thro' what 

we feel 
Within ourselves is highest, shall 

descend 
On this half-deed, and sha|>e it at the 

last 
.A.ccording to the Highest in the lligh- 



" What Power but the Years that 
make 

And break the vase of clay, 
And stir the sleeping earth, and wake 

The bloom that fades away .' 
What rulers but the Days and Hours 

That cancel weal with woe. 
And wind the front of youth with 
flowers, 

And cap our age with snow ? " 





IVie Ancient Sage. 



The days and hours are ever glanc- 
ing by. 
And seem tu flicker past thro sun 

and shade, 
Or short, or long, as Pleasure leads, 



Hut 



Day 



■ith the Nameless 

nor Hour ; 
Tho' we, thin minds, who creep from 

thought to thought, 
Hreak into ' Thens ' and ' Whens ' the 

Eternal Now : 
This double seeming of the single 

world !— 
My words are like the babblings in a 

dream 
Of nightmare, when the babblings 

break the dream. 
Hut thou be wise in this dream-world 

of ours. 
Nor take thy dial for thy deity. 
Hut make the passing shadow serve 

thy will. 

" The years that made the stripling 
wise 

Undo their work again. 
And leave him, blind of heart and eyes. 

The last and least of men ; 
Who clings to earth, and once would 
dare 

Hell-heat or Arctic cold. 
And now one breath of cooler air 

Would loose him from his hold ; 
His winter chills him to the root. 

He withers marrow and mind ; 
The kernel of the shrivell'd fruit 

Is jutting thro' the rind ; 
The tiger spasms tear his chest, 

The ])alsy wags his head ; 
The wife, the sons, who love him best 

Would fain that he were dead ; 
The griefs by which he once was 
wrung 

Were never worth the while " — 

Who knows? or whether this earth- 
narrow life 
He yet but yolk, and forming in the 




The placid gleam of sunset after 




that swav'd 



" The statesman's br; 
the past 

Is feebler than his knees ; 
The passive sailor wrecks at last 

In ever-silent seas ; 
The warrior hath forgot his arms. 

The Learned all his lore; 
The changing market frets or charms 

The merchant's hope no more ; 
The prophet's beacon burn'd in vain, 

And now is lost in cloud ; 
The plowman passes, bent with pain. 

To mix with what he plow'd; 
The poet whom his Age would quote 

As heir of endless fame — 
He !-no-s not ev'n the book he wrote, 

Not even his own name. 
For man has overlived his day, 

And, darkening in the light. 
Scarce feels the senses break away 

To mix with ancient Night." 

The shell must break before the bird 
can fly. 

" The years that when my Youth began 

Had set the lily and rose 
By all my ways where'er they ran. 

Have ended mortal foes ; 
My rose of love for ever gone. 

My lily of truth and trust — 
They made her lily and rose in one. 

And changed her into dust. 
O rosetree planted in my grief, 

And growing, on her iomb. 
Her dust is gceening in your leaf, 

Her blood is in your bloom. 
O slender lily waving there. 

And laughing back the light. 
In vain you tell me ' Earth is fair ' 

When all is dark as night." 

My son, the world is dark with griefs 

and graves. 
So dark that men cry out against the 

Heavens. 
Who knows but that the darkness is 

in man .> 
The doors of Night may be the gates 

of Light; 





The Ancient Sage. 



For wert thou bo 



blind or clea(, 



Suddenly heal'd, how woulil'st thou 
glory in all 

The splendors and the voices of the 
world ! 

And we, the poor earth's dying race, 
and yet 

Xo phantoms, watching from a phan- 
tom shore 

Await the last and largest sense to 
make 

The phantom walls of this illusion 
fade, 

And show us that the world is wholly 



As laughter over wine. 
And vain the laughter as the tears, 
() brother, mine or thine, 

For all that laugh, and all that 
weep 

And all that breathe are one 
Slight ripple on the boundless deep 

That moves, and all is gone." 

Hut that one ripple on the boundless 

deep 
Feels that the deep is boundless, and 

itself 
For ever changing form, but evermore 
One with the boundless motion of the 

deep. 

" Yet wine and laughter friends ! 
and set 
The lamps alight, and call 
For golden music, and forget 
The darkness of the pall." 

If utter darkness closed the day. 

But earth's dark forehead flings 

athwart the heavens 
Her shadow crown'd with stars — and 

yonder — out 
To northward — some that never set, 

From sight and night to lose them- 
selves in day. 





I hate the black negation of the bier. 
And wish the dead, as happier than 

ourselves 
And higher, having climb'd one step 

beyond 
Our village miseries, might be borne 

in white 
To burial or to burning, hymn'd from 

hence 
With songs in praise of death, and 

crown'd with flowers! 

" O worms and maggots of to-day • 
Without their hope of wings! '.- 

But louder than thy rhvme the silent 

Word 
Of that world-prophet in the heart of 

man. 

" Tho' some have gleams or so they 
Of more than mortal things." 

To-day ? but what of yesterday .' for oft 

On me, when boy, there came what 
then I call'd. 

Who knew no books and no philoso- 
phies. 

In my boy-phrase ' The Passion of the 
Past.' 

The first gray streak of earliest sum- 
mer-dawn. 

The last long stripe of waning crimson 
gloom. 

As if the late and early were but one — 

A height, a broken grange, a grove, a 

Had murmurs ' Lost and gone and 

lost and gone ! ' 
A breath, a whisper — some divine 

farewell — 
Desolate sweetness — far and far 

away — 
What had'he loved, what had he lost, 

the boy ? 
I know not and I speak of what has 

been. 
And more, my son ! for more than 

once when I 
Sat all alone, revolving in myself. 
The word that is the symbol of niy- 

.self. 




The Ancient Sage. 



of the Self was 



And past into the Nameless, as 
cloud 

I touch'd 

;— and yet 



Melts into Heaven, 
limbs, the liml 
Were strange not n- 



shade of doubt, 



Self 



loss of 



The gain of such large life as match'd 
with ours 

Were Sun to spark — unshadowable 
in words, 

Themselves but shadows of a shadow- 
world 

" And idle gleams will come and go, 
But still the clouds remain ; " 

. are children of 

"And Night and Shadow rule 
below 
When only Day should reign." 

And Day and Night are children of 

the Sun, 
And idle gleams to thee are light to 



Some say, the Light was father of the 


And 


some, the N 
Light, 


ght was fat 


ler of the 


No 


light no day 
again- 


—I touch 


thy world 


No 


ill no good ! 
myson, 


such coun 


ter-terms, 


Are 


border-race 
own 


,, holding. 


each Its 


By endless war : 


but night 


snough is 




there 






In von dark citv 


: get thee back : and 




snice 






The 


key to that 


weird casket, which 




for thee 






But 


holds a skul 


, is neither 


thine nor 


But 


in the hand of what is i 


lore than 


Or 


n man's hai 


d when ma 


n is more 





Let be thy wail and help thy fell 

And make thy gold thy vassal not thy 

king. 
And fling tree alms into the beggar's 

bowl. 
And send the day into the darken'd 

heart ; 
Nor list for guerdon in the voice of 

men, 
A dying echo from a fallen wall ; 
Nor care — for Hunger hath the Evil 

eye — 
To vex the noon with fiery gems, or 

fold 
Thy presence in the silk of sumptuous 

looms ; 
Nor roll thy viands on a luscious 

tongue. 
Nor drown thyself with flies in honied 

wine ; 
Nor thou be rageful, like a handled 

bee. 
And lose thy life by usage of thy 

sting ; 
Nor harm an adder thro' the lust for 

harm, 
Nor make a snail's horn shrink for 

wantonness; 
And more — think well! Do-well will 

follow thought. 
And in the fatal sequence of this world 
An evil thought may scjil thy child- 
ren's blood ; 
But curb the beast would cast thee in 

the mire. 
And leave the hot swamp of voluptu- 

A cloud between the Nameless ani;l 

thyself. 
And lay thine uphill shoulder to the 

wheel. 
And climb the Mount of Blessing, 

Look higher, then— perchance^thou 

mayest — beyond 
A hundred ever-rising mountain lines. 
And past the range of Night and 

Shadow— see 
The high-heaven dawn of more than 

Strike on the Mount of V 





THE FLIGHT. 



Are you sleeping ? have you forgotten? 

do not sleep, my sister dear ! 
How can you sleep ? tlie morning 

brings the day I hate and fear ; 
The cock has crovv'd already once, 

he crows before his time; 
Awake I the creeping glimmer steals, 

the hills are white with rime. 



Ah, clasp me in your arms, sister, ah, 

fold me to your breast ! 
Ah, let me weep my fill once more, 

and cry myself to rest ! 
To rest .' to rest and wake no more 

were better rest for me. 
Than to waken every moruing to that 

face I loathe to see : 



I envied your sweet slumber, all 

night so calm you lay. 
The night was calm, the morn is 

c.dm, and like another day ; 
But I could wish yon moaning sea 

would rise and burst the shore. 
And such a whirlwind blow these 

woods, as never blew before. 



For, one by one, the stars went down 

across the gleaming pane. 
And project after project rose, and all 

of them were vain ; 
The blackthorn-blossom fades and 

falls and leaves the bitter sloe, 
The hope I catch at vanishes and 

youth is turn'dto woe. 



Come, speak a little comfort! all 

night I pray'd with tears, 
And yet no comfort came to me, and 

now the morn appears. 
When he will tear me from your side, 

who bought me for his slave : 
This father pays his debt with me, and 

weds me to my grave. 





What father, this or mine, was he, 
who, on that summer day 

When I had fall'n from off the crag 
we clamber'd up in play. 

Found, fear'd me dead, and groan 'd, 
and took and kiss'd me, and 



He kiss'c 



and I loved him then ; 
ny father then. 



No father now, the tyrant vassal of a 

tyrant vice ! 
The Godless Jephtha vows his child 

... to one cast of the dice. 
These ancient woods, this Hall at last 

will go — perhaps have gone. 
Except his own meek daughter yield 

her life, heart, soul to on<2 — 



To one who knows I scorn him. O 

the formal mocking bow. 
The cruel smile, the courtly phrase 

that masks his malice now — 
But often in the sidelong eves a gleam 

of all things ill- • 
It is not Love but Hate that weds a 

bride against her will ; 



Hate, that would pluck from this true 

breast the locket that I wear. 
The precious crystal into which I 

braided Edwin's hair ! 
The love that keeps this heart alive 

beats on it night and day — 
One golden curl, his golden gift, before 

he past away. 



He left us weeping in the woods; hi; 

boat was on the sand ; 
How slowly down the rocks he \ 

how loth to quit the land ! 
And all my life was darken'd, as I saw 



irhite 



KnA darken, up that lane of light 
the setting sun. 




The Flight. 



XI. 
How often have we watch'd the sun 

fade from us thro' the West, 
And follow Edwin to those isles, those 

islands of the liiest ! 
Is he not there? would I were there, 

the friend, the bride, the wife, 
With him, where suinmer never dies, 

with Love, the Sun of Life I 

xil. 
(-) would I were in Edwin's arms — 

once more — to feel his breath 
Upon my cheek — on Edwin's ship, 

with Edwin, ev'n in death, 
Tho' all about the shuddering wreck 

the death-white sea should rave, 
Or if lip were laid to lip on the pillows 

of the wave. 

XIII. 

Shall I take hint ? I kneel with him ? 

I swear and swear forsworn 
To love him most, whom most I 

loathe, to honor whom I scorn .'' 
The Fiend would yell, the grave 

would yawn, my mother's ghost 

would rise — 
To lie, to lie — in God's own house — 

the blackest of all lies ! 

XIV. 
Why — rather than that hand in mine, 

tho' every pulse would freeze 
I'd sooner fold an icy corpse dead of 

some foul disease : 
Wed him? I will not wed him, let 

them spurn me from the doors, 
.■\nd I will wander till I die about the 

barren moors. 



The dear, mad bride who stabb'd her 
bridegroom on her bridal 
night— 
If mad, then I am mad, but sane, if 

she were in the right. 
My father's madness makes me mad — 
words are only words ! 
mad. not yet, not quite — 
ere ! listen how the birds 





Begin to warble yonder in the budding 




orchard trees 1 




The 


lark has past fron 


earth to 




Heaven upon the 


morning 




breeze ! 




How 


gladiv, were I one of those, how 




earlv would I wake ! 




And 


yet the sorrow that 
sorrow for his sake. 

XVII. 


I bear is 


Thev 


love their mates, to whom they 




smg ; or else their 


ongs, that 




meet 




The 


mornmg with such music, would 




never be so sweet ! 




And tho' these fathers wi 


1 not hear. 




the blessed Heaven 


* are just. 


And 


Love is fire, and bur 


s the feet 




would trample it to dust. 



A door was open'd in the house — 
who ? who ? my father sleeps ! 

A stealthy foot upon the stair I he — 
some one — this way creeps! 

If he? yes, he. . . lurks, listens, fears 
his victim may have fled — 

He ! where is some sharp-pointed 
comes, and finds me 



> victir 
where is 
thing? h 
dead. 



XI.X. 



Not he, not yet ! and time to act — but 
how my temples burn ! 

And idle fancies flutter me, I know- 
not where to turn ; 

Speak tome, sister; counsel me; this 
marriage must not be. 

You onlv know the love that makes 
the world a world to me ! 



Our gentle mother, had shi- lived — but 

we were left alone : 
That other left us to ourselves; he 

cared not for his own ; 
So all the summer long we roam'd in 

these wild woods of ours, 
My Edwin loved to call us then ' His 

two wild woodland flowers.' 





XXI. 

Wild flowers blowing side 1)v side in 
God's free light and air. 

Wild flowers of the secret woods, when 
Edwin found us there. 

Wild woods in which we roved with 
him, and heard his passionate 

Wild w<jods in which we rove no 
more, if we be parted now ! 



You will not leave me thus'in grief to 

wander forth forlorn ; 
We never changed a bitter word, not 

once since we were born ; 
Our dying mother join'd our hands; 

she knew this father well ; 
She bad us love, like souls in Heaven, 

and now I fly from Hell, 

XNIII. 

And you with me; and we shall light 
upon some lonely shore, 

Some lodge within the waste sea- 
dunes, and hear the waters roar, 

And see the ships from out the West 
go dipping thro' the foam, 

And sunshine on that sail at last which 
brings our Edwin home. 



But look, the morning grows apace, 
and lights the old church-tower. 

And liphts the clock I the hand points 
five— O me— it strikes the 



ly fate, what- 



And yet my heart is ill at ease, my 
eyes are dim with dew. 

o see a new-dug grave up 
yonder by the yew ! 
we should never more return, but 
wander hand in hand 
Withbreaking hearts, without a friend. 




dist: 



md. 




XXVI. 

O sweet, they tell me that the world 

is hard, and harsh of mind. 
But can it be so hard, so harsh, as 

those that should be kind? 
That matters not : let come what will , 

at last the end is sure. 
And every heart that loves with truth 

is equal to endure. 



TO-MORROW. 



Her, that yer Honor was spakin' to ? 

Whin, yer Honor.' last year — 
Standin' here be the bridge, when last 

yer Honor was here ? 
An' yer Honor ye gev her the top of 

the mornin', ' Tomorra ' savs 

she. 
What did thev call her, ver Honor? 

Thev call'd her Molly Magee. 
An' yer Honor's the thrue ould blood 

that alvvavs manes to be kind. 
But there's raj-on in all things, yer 

Honoi. tor .Molly was out of 

her mind. 



nighl 



the 



An' it seems to me now like a bit of 

yisther-day in a dhranie — 
Here where yer Honor seen her — 

there was but a slip of a moon. 
But I hard thim— Molly Magee wid 

her batchelor, Danny O'Roon — 
' You've been takin' a dhrop o' the 

crathur' an' Danny says ' Troth, 

an' I been 
Dhrinkin' yer health wid Shamus 

O'Shea at Katty's shebeen ; i 
But I must be lavin' ye soon.' 

' Ochone are ye goin" away ? ' 
'Coin' to cut the Sassenach nha'te' he 

says ' over the say ' — 

1 Grog-shop, 





BODT HIS ALTAR." —nW-? ">9- 




will ye meet me agin ? r.ii 
hard him ' Molly asthore, 
meet you agiii tomorra,* says he, 

' be the chapel-door.' 
' An' whin are ye goin' to lave me ? ' 

' O' Monday niornin' ' says he ; 
' An' share thin ye'll meet me to- 

morra? ' 

'Toniorra, tomorra, Machrec ! ' 
Thin Molly's ould mother, ycr Honor, 

that had no likin' for Dan, 
Call'd from her cabin an' tonld her to 

Come away from the man. 
An' Molly Magee kern flyin' acrass 

me, as light as a lark, 
An' Dan stood there for a minute, an' 

thin wint into the dark. 
But wirrahl the storm that night — 

the tundher, an' rain that fell. 
An' the sthrames runnin' down at the 
vnded 



But airth was at pace nixt mornm , 

an' Hiven in its glory smiled, 
As the Holy Mother o' Glory that 

smiles at her sleepin' child — 
Ethen— she slept an the chapel-green, 

an' she turn'd herself roiin' 
Wid a diamond dhrop in her eye, for 

Danny was not to be foun'. 
An' many's the time that I watch'd 

her at mass lettin' down the 

tear. 
For the Divil a Danny was there, yer 

Honor, for forty year. 



Och, Molly Magee, wid the red o' the 

rose an' the white o' the May, 
An' yer hair as black as the night, an' 

yer eyes as bright as the day! 
Achora, yer laste little whishper was 

sweet as the lilt of a bird ! 
Acushia, ye set me heart batin' to 

music wid ivery word ! 
An' sorra the Qneen wid her sceptre 

in sich an illigant han', 
An' the fall of yer foot in the dance 
light as snow an the 





An' the sun kem out of a cloud whin- 

iver ye walkt in the shtreet, 
An' Shamus O'Shea was yer shadda, 

an' laid himself undher yer 

feet. 
An' I loved ye meself wid a heart 

and a half, me darlin', and he 
'Ud 'a shot his own sowl dead for a 



■ ye, Mol ly Magee. 



shure we wor bctther frinds whin 

I crack'd his skull for her 

sake, 
he ped me back wid the best he 

could give at ould Donovan's 

wake — 
the boys wor about her agin whin 

Dan didn't come to the fore, 
Shamus along wid the rest, but 

she put thini all to the door. 
afthiT, I thried her meself av the 

bird 'ud come to me call, 
Molly, begorrah, 'ud listhen to 

nai'ther at all, at all. 



An' her nabour 



I frinds 'ud consowl 
an' condowl wid her, airly and 

' Vaur Danny,' they says, 'niver crasst 

over say to the Sassenach 

whate ; 
1 le's gone to the .States, aroon, an' 

he's married another wife. 
An' ye'll niver set eyes an tlie face of 

the thraithur agin in life ! 
An' to dhrame of a married man, 

death alive, is a mortal sin.' 
But Molly says ' I'd his hand-promise, 

an' shure he'll meet me agin.' 



ner paarn 
glory, an' both in wan day, 
She began to spake to herself, the 

crathur, an' whishper, an' say 
' Tomorra, Tomorra I ' an' Father 

Molowny he tuk her in han', 
' Mollv, you're manin',' 
',le.>r. nv I iindhe 





That ye'll meet youi paaiiiits agin an' 

yet Danny O'Roon afore God 
Wid his blessed Maithyrs an' Saints ; ' 

an' she gev him a frindly nod, 
■ Tomorra, Tonioira,' she says, an' 

she didn't iniind to desave. 
But her wits wor dead, an' her hair 

was as white as the snow an a 

grave. 



Arrah now, here last month they wo 
diggin' the bog, an' they foun' 

Dhrownded in blacl< bog-wather 
corp lyin' undher groun'. 



Yer Honor's own agint, he says to me 

wanst, at Kalty's shebeen, 
'The Divil take all the black Ian', for 

a blessin' 'ud come wid the 

green ! ' 
An' where 'ud the poor man, thin, cut 

his bit o' turf for the fire ? 
But och ! bad scran to the bogs whin 



the I 



An' sorra the bog that's in Hiven wid 
all the light an' the glow. 

An* there's hate enough, shure, wid- 
out thim in the Divil's kitchen 



Thim ould blind nagers in Agypt, I 

hard his Riverence say. 
Could keep their haithen kings in the 

flesh for the Jidgeniint day. 
An', faix, be the piper o' IWoses, they 

kep the cat an' the dog, 
But it 'ud 'a been aisier work a they 

lived be an Irish bog. 



Be th 



m-ivcr they laid this body tliey 
foun' an the grass 
; chapel-door, an' the people 'ud 
see it that wini in to mass — 
But a frish gineration had riz, an' 

most of the ould was few. 

An' 1 didn't know him meself, an' 

none of the parish knew. 





But Molly kern limpin' up wid her 

stick, she was lamed iv 
Thin a slip of a gossoon call'd, ' Oiv 

ye know him, Molly Magee?' 
An' she stood up strait as the Queen 

of the world — she lifted her 

head— 
' He said he would meet me tomorra 1 ' 

an' dhropt down dead an the 

dead. 



XII 



Och, 
Whin 
Sorra 
Sorra 



Molly, we thought, machree, ye 
would start back agin into life. 



for the frinds that was gone ! 

the silent throat but we hard it 

crvin' ' Ochone ! ' 
Shamus U'Shea that has now 

ten childer, hansome an ' tall, 
m' his childer wor keenin' as if 

he had lost thim all. 



Thin his Riverence buried thim both 
in wan grave be the dead boor- 
tree.i 

The young man Danny O'Roon wid 
his ould woman, Molly Magee. 



May all the flowers o' Jeroosilim 

blossom an' spring from the 

grass, 
Imbrashin' an' kissin' aich other — as 

ye did — over yer Crass I 
An' the lark fly out o' the flowers wid 

his song to the Sun an' the 

Moon, 
An' tell thim in Hiven about Molly 

Magee an' her Danny O'Roon, 
Till Holy St. Pether gets up wid his 

kays an' opens the gate I 
An' shure, be the Crass, that's betthcr 

nor cuttin' the Sassenach whate 

' Elder-tree. 





The Spinster's Siveet-arts. 



To be there wid the Blessed Mother, 
an' Saints an' Marthyrs galore, 

An' singin' yer ' Aves ' an' ' Fathers ' 
for iver 



THE SPINSTER'S SWEET- 
ARTS. 



Milk for my sweet-arts, Bess ! fur it 

mun be the time about now 
When Molly coonis in fro' the far-end 

close wi'herpaails fro' the cow. 
Eh ! tha be new to the plaace — thou'rt 

gaapiii'— doesn't tha see 
I calls' em arter the fellers es once 

was sweet upo' me .' 



Naay to be sewer it be past 'er time. 

What maakes 'er sa laate .' 
Goii to the laane at the back, an' 

loook thruf Maddison's gaate ! 



Sweet-arts ! Mollv belike may'a 

lighted to-night upo' one. 
Sweet-arts ! thanks to the Lord that I 

niver not listen'd to noan ! 
So I sits i' my oan ai nichair wi' mv oan 

kettle theere o' the hob, 
An' Tommy the fust, an' Tommy the 

second, an' Steevie an' Rob. 



IV. 

Rob, coom oop 'ere o' my knee. Thou 

sees that i' spite o' the men 

'a kep' thruf thick an' thin my two 

'oonderd a-year to mysen ; 

Yis ! thaw tha call'd me es pretty es 

ony lass i' the Shere ; 
An' thou be es pretty a Tabby, but 
Robby I seed thruf ya theere. 





Feyther 'ud saay 

an' I beant 
But I niver wur downright hugly, thaw 

soom 'ud 'a thowt ma plaain, 
An' I wasn't sa plaain i' pink ribbons, 

ve said I wur pretty i' pinks, 
An' I Hked to 'ear it I did', but I beiint 

sich a fool as ye thinks; 
Ye was stroiikin ma down wi' the 'air, 

as I be a-stroakin o' you, 
But whiniver I loooked i' the glass I 

wur sewer that it couldn't be 

true ; 
Niver wur pretty, not I, but ye knaw'd 

it wur pleasant to 'ear. 
Thaw it warn't not me es wur pretty, 

but my two 'oonderd a-year. 



D'ya mind the murnin' when we was 

a-walkin' togither, an' stood 
By the claay'd-oop pond, that the 

foalk be sa scared at, i' 

Gigglesby wood, 
Wheer the poor wrench drowndid 

hersen, black Sal, es 'ed been 

disgraaced ? 
An' I feel'd thy arm es I stood wur a- 

creeapin about mv waaist ; 
An' me es wur alius afear'd of a man's 

gittin' ower fond, 
I sidled awaayan' awaaytill I plumpt 

foot fust i' the pond ; 
And, Robby, I niver "a liked tha sa 

well, as I did that daay. 
Fur tha joompt in thysen, an' tha 

hoickt my feet wi' a flop fro' 

the claay. 
Ay, stick oop thy back, an' set oop 

thy taail, tha may gie me a kiss. 
Fur I walk'd wi' tha all the way hoam 

an' wur niver sa nigh saayin' 

Yis. 
But wa boath was i' sich a clat we was 

shaamed to cross Gigglesby 

Greean, 
Fur a cat may loook at a king thou 

knaws but the cat mun be cle 
Sa we boath on us kep out o' sight o' 

the winders o' Gigglesby 



Hi 





The Spinster's Sweet-arts. 



Naay, but the claws o' tha ! quiet ! 
tliey pricks clean thruf to the 



,va boath slinkt 'oam by the 

brokken shed i' the laane at the 

back, 
Wheer the poodle runn'd at tha once, 

an' thou runn'd oop o' the 

thack ; 
An' tha squeedg'd my 'and i' the shed, 

furtheere we was forced to 'ide, 
Fur I seed that Steevie wur coomin', 

and one o' the Tommies beside. 



Theere now, what art'a mewii 
Steevie ? for owt I can tel 

Robby wur fust to be sewer, or I i 
'a liked tha as well. 



vni. 
But, Robby, I thowt o' tha all the 

while I wur chaiingin' my gown. 
An' I thowt shall I chaange my 

staate.> but, O Lord, upo' 

coomin' down — 
My bran-new carpet es fresh es a 

midder o' flowers i' Maav — 
Why 'cdn't tha wiped thy shoes .> it 

wur clatted all ower wi' claay. 
An' I could a' cried ammost, fur I 

seed that it couldn't be. 
An' Robby I gied tha a raatin that 

sattled thy coortin o' me. 
An' Mully an' me was agreed, as we 

was a-cleiinin' the lloor. 
That a man be a durty thing an' a 

trouble an' plague wi' indoor. 
Hut I rued it arter a bit, fur I stuck 



Naay — let ma stroak tha down till I 

Skes tha es smooth es silk. 
But if I 'ed married tha. Hobby, thou'd 

not 'a been worth thy milk, 
Thou'd niver 'a cotch'd onv mice but 

'a left me the work to do, 





And 'a taaen to the bottle beside, so 
es all that I 'ears be true ; 

But I loovs tha to maake thysen 'appy, 
an' soa purr awaay, my dear. 

Thou' ed wellnigh purr'd ma awaay fro' 
my oan two 'oonderd a-year. 



Swearin agean, you Toms, as ye used 

to do twelve year sin' I 
Ye niver 'eard Steevie swear 'cep' it 

wur at a dog coomin' in. 
An' boath o' ye mun be fools to be 

hallus a-shawin' your claws, 
Fur I niver cared nothink for neither — 

an' one o' ye dead ye knaws ! 
Coom give hoaver then, vveant ye.' I 

warrant ye soom fine daay — 
Theere, lig down— I shall hev to gie 

one or tother awaiiy. 
Can't ye taiike pattern by Steevie? ye 

shant hev a drop fro' the paail. 
Steevie be right good manners bang 

thruf to the" tip o' the taail. 



Robby, git down wi'tha, wiU tha.' let 

Steevie coom oop o' my knee. 
Steevie, mv lad, thou *ed verv nigh 

been the Steevie fur me I 
Robby wur fust to be sewer, 'e wur 

burn an' bred i' the 'ouse, 
But thou be es 'ansom a tabby es iver 

patted a mouse. 



lid 



the 
iiarry ma. 



■oft. 



tha .' but that wur a bit ow 

soft. 
Thaw thou was es soaber es daay, \ 

a niced red faace, an' es cleai 
Es a shiliin' fresh fro' 

bran-new 'ead o' the Queean. 
An' thy farmin' es clean es thysen', 

fur. Steevie. tha kep' it sa neat 





The Spinster's Sweet-arts. 



■|"hat I niver not spied sa much cs a 

poppy along wi' the wheat, 
■ ' ' " ' a thistle a-flyin' an' 

seeadin' tha haated to see; 
■ es bad es a battle-twig ' 'ere i' 

my oan blue chauniber to me. 
)ob thy whiskers agean ma, fur 

I could 'a taaen to tha well, 
ur thy bairns, poor Steevie, a 

bouncin' boy an' a gell. 



XIII. 

An' thou was es fond o' thy bairns es 

I be mvsen o' my cats, 
Hut I niver not wish'd fur childer, I 

hevn't naw likin' fur brats ; 
Pretty anew when ya dresses 'em oop, 

an' they goas fur a walk. 
Or sits wi' their 'ands afoor 'em, an' 

doesn't not 'inder the talk ! 
But their bottles o' pap, ar,' their 

mucky bibs, an' the clats an' 

the clouts, 
An' their mashin' their toys to pieaces 

an' maakin' ma deaf wi' their 

shouts. 
An' hallus a-joompin' about ma as if 

they was set upo' springs. 
An' a haxin' ma hawkard questions, 

an' saayin' ondecent things. 
An' a-callin' ma ' hugly ' mavhap to 

my faace, or a tearin' my 

gown- 
Dear ! dear ! dear ! I niun part them 

Tommies — Steevie git down. 



be wuss nor the men-tom 
you. I tell'd ya, na mo 



Thee 



ster'd them ! Ilec 

the Tommies — C 

.ord, 

To loove an' obaay the Tommies ! 1 

couldn't 'a stuck by my word. 





To be horder'd about, an' 

when Molly 'd put out th^ 

light. 
By a man coomin' in wi' a hiccup at 

ony hour o* the night! 
An' the t'aiihle staain'd wi' 'is aale, an' 

the mud o' 'is boots o' the stairs, 
An' the stink o' 'is pipe i' the 'ouse, 

an' the mark o' 'is 'ead o' the 

chairs ! 
An' noan o' my four sweet-arts 'ud 'a 

let me 'a hed my oan waay, 
Sa I likes 'em best wi' taails when 

they 'evn't a word to saay. 



An' I sits i' my oan little parlor, an' 
sarved by my oan little lass, 

Wi' my oan little garden outside, an' 
my oan bed o' sparrow-grass, 

An' my oan door poorch wi' the wood- 
bine an' jessmine a-dressin' it 
greeiin. 

An' my oan fine Jackman i' purple a 
'roabin' the 'ouse like a Queeiin. 



ail' then- paains: 
An' a haaf-pot o' jam, or a mossel o' 



vhei 



Thev nuiak 
Hes es hal 



ater Laady nor 
heer, 
hax of a man liow 
much to spare or to s])end; 
An' a spinster 1 be an' I will be, if 
soa pleSse God, to the hend. 



ha 






Molly 



It should 'a been 'ere by seven, 
theere — it be strikin' height 

' Cushie wur craazed fur 'er cauf \ 
— I 'eiird 'er 
moan, 





Locksky Hall 




Now Robby ! 
You Tommies shall waait t 
night 

■iobby an' Steevie 'es 'ed the 
lap — an' it sarves ye right. 



LOCKSLKV HALL 

SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 

Late, my grandson ! half the morning have I paced these sandy tracts, 
Watch'd again the hollow ridges roaring i ' 



Wander'd back to living boyhood ' 
I myself so close on death, and de: 



I heard the curlews call, 
self in Locksley Hall. 



So — your happy suit was blasted — she the faultless, the divine ; 
And you liken — boyish babble — tliis boy-love of yours with mine. 



I myself have ofte 
Babble, babble ; o 



babbled doubtless of a foolish past ; 
ir old England may go down in babble ; 



' Curse him ! ' curse your fellow-victim .> call him dotard in your rage? 
Eyes that lured a doting boyhood well might fool a dotard's age. 

Jilted for a wealthier! wealthier? yet perhaps she was not wise; 
I remember how you kiss'd the miniature with those sweet eyes. 

In the hall there hangs a painting— .\my's arms about my neck — 
Happy children in a sunbeam sitting on the ribs of wreck. 

In my life there was a picture, she that clasp'd my neck had flown; 
I was left within the shadow sitting on the wreck alone. 



ed me. An 
Judith-l 




■ill you sicken for her 
it is of easier, earthli( 



nond necklace dearer than the golden ring, 
sunset fairer than a morn of Spring. 



heart is brooding on hi; 
s ' till death shall part u 



1 of worldlings— father, mother— be content, 
can teach us there is something in descent. 



that chapel, slowly si 
irrior, my forefather, 



1 the ground, 
ipon the hound 





Sixty Years After. 




Cross'd ! for once he sail'd the sea to crush the Mosle 
Dead the warrior, dead his glory, dead the cause in w 

Yet how often I and Amy in the mouldering aisle hav 
Gazing for one pensive moment i 

There again I stood to-day, and where of old we knelt in prayer, 

Close beneath the casement crimson with the shield of Locksley — there, 

All in white Italian marble, looking still as if she smiled, 

Lies my Amy dead in child-birth, dead the mother, dead the child. 

Dead — and sixty years ago, and dead her aged husband now — 

I this old white-headed dreamer stoopt and kiss'd her marble brow. 

Gone the fires of youth, the follies, furies, curses, passionate tears, 

Gone like fires and floods and earthquakes of the planet's dawning years. 

Fires that shook me once, but now to silent ashes fall'n away. 
Cold upon the dead volcano sleeps the gleam of dying day. 

Gone the tvrant of my youth, and mute below the chancel stones, 
All his virtues— I forgive them — black in white above his bones. 

Gone the comrades of my bivouac, some in fight against the foe. 
Some thro' age and slow diseases, gone as all on earth will go. 



Very woman of very woman, nurse of ailing body and mind, 

She that link'd again the broken chain that bound me to my kind. 

Here to-day was Amy with me, while I wander'd down the coast, 
Near us Edith's holy shadow, smiling at the slighter ghost. 

Gone our sailor son thy father, Leonard early lost at sea; 
Thou alone, my boy, of Amy's kin and mine art left to me. 

Gone thy tender-natured mother, wearying to be left alone, 
Pining for the stronger heart that once had beat beside her own. 

Truth, for Truth is Truth, he worship!, being true as he was brave ; 
Good, for Good is Good, he follow'd, 3et he look'd beyond the grave, 

in you, that crowning barren Death as lord of all, 
•-tragic drama's closing curtain is the pall ! 

Beautiful was death in him, who saw the death, but kept the deck. 
Saving women and their babes, and sinking with the sniking wreck, 





Ij)cksky Hall 




Gone for ever ! Ever ? no— for since our ilyi 
Ever, ever, and for ever was the leading ligiil 

Tliosc that in barbarian burials kill'd the slave, and slew the wife 
Felt within themselves the sacred-passion of the second life. 

Indian warriors dream of ampler hunting grounds beyond the night;. 
Ev'a the black Australian dying hopes he shall return, a white. 



Gone the cry of ' Forward, Forward,' lost within a growing gloom; 
Lost, or only heard in silence from the silence of a tomb. 

Half the marvels of my morning, triumphs over time and sjiace. 
Staled by frequence, shrunk by usage into commonest cummonplaGe!' 

' Forward ' rang the voices then, and of the many mine was one. 
Let us hush this cry of ' Forward ' till ten thousand years have gone. 

Far among the vanish 'd races, old .\ssyrian kings would flay 
Captives whom they caught in battle — iron-hearted victors they. 

Ages after, while in Asia, he that led the wild iVToguls, 

Timur built his ghastly tower of eighty thousand human skulls, 

Then, and here in Edward's time, an age of noblest English names, 
Christain conquerors took and dung the conquer'd Christian into flames. 

Love your enemy, bless your haters, said the Greatest of the great ; 
Christian love among the Churches look'd the twin of heathen hate. 

From the golden alms of Blessing man had coin'd himself a curse : 
Rome of Caesar, Rome of Peter, which was crueller .> which was worse? 

o all men, preach'd a Gospel, all men's good ; 
n, shriek'd and slaked the light with blood. 

Hope was ever on her niou 
Crown'd with sunlight — ov 

Have we grown at last beyond the passions of the primal clan? 
' Kill your enemy, for you hate him,' still, ' your enemy' was a man. 

Have we sunk below them? p( 
Innocent cattle under thatch, , 

Brutes, the brutes are not your wrongers — burnt at midnight, found at morn. 
Twisted hard m mortal agony with their offspring, born-unborn. 






Sixty Years AJter 




Chaos, Cosmos I Cosmos, Chaos ! who can tell how all will end ? 

Read ihe wide world's annals, you, and take their wisdom for your friend. 

Hope the best, but hold the Present fatal daughter of the Past, 

Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hour will last. 

Ay, it dynamite and revolver 
W hen was age so cramm'd wi 

Envy wears the mask of Love, and, laughing sober fact to scorn, 
Cries to Weakest as to Strongest, ' Yi; are equals, equal-born.' 

Equal-born.' O yes, if yonder hill be level with the flat. 
Charm u.s. Orator, till the Lion look no larger than the Cat, 

Till the Cat thro' that mirage of overheated language loom 
Larger than the Lion, — Demos end in working its own doom, 

Russia bursts our Indian barrier, shall we fight her.' shall we yield.' 
Pause ! before you sound the trumpet, hear the voices from the field. 



Nay, but these would feel and follow Truth if only you and you, 
Rivals of realm-ruining party, when you speak we're wholly true. 

Plowmen, .Shepherds, have I found, and more than once, and still could find, 
Sons of God, and kings of men in utter nobleness of mind. 

Truthful, trustful, looking upward to the practised hustings-liar; 
So the Higher wields the Ixjwer, while the Lower is the Higher. 

Here and there a cotter's babe is royal-born by right divine ; 
Here and there my lord is lower than his oxen or his swine. 

Chaos, Cosmos ! Cosmos, Chaos ! once again the sickening game: 
Freedom, free to slay herself, and dying while they shout her name. 

Step by step we gain'd a freedom known to Europe, known to all; 
Step by step we rose to greatness, — thro' the longuestcrs we may fall. 

You that woo the Voices — tell them ' old experience is a fool,' 
Teach your flatter'd kings that only those who cannot read can rule. 

Pluck the mighty from their .seat, but set no meek ones in their place; 
Pillory Wisdoniln your markets, pelt your offal at her face. 






Locksky Hall 




Authors— essayist, atheist, novelist, realist, rhymester, play your part, 
Paint the mortal shame of nature with the living hues of Art. 

Rip your brothers' vices open, strip your own foul passions bare ; [stare. 
Down with Reticence, down with Reverence — forward — naked — let them 

Feed the budding rose of boyhood with the drainage of your sewer ; 
Send the drain into the fountain, lest the stream should issue pure. 

Set the maiden fancies wallowing in the troughs of Zolaisni, — 
Forward, forward, ay and backward, downward too into the abysm. 

, to lower the rising race of men; 
t, then back into the beast again .' 

e that sicken at your lawless din, 

orld dust before the newer world begin. 

Heated am I .> you — you wonder — well, it scarce becomes mine age — 
Patience I let the dying actor mouth his last upon the stage. 

Cries of unprogressive dotage ere the dotard fall asleep.' 
Noises of a current narrowing, not the music of a deep ? 

Ay, for doubtless I am old, and think gray thoughts, for I am gray: 
After all the stormy changes shall we find a changeless May.' 

After madness, after massacre, Jacobinism and Jacquerie, 
Some diviner force to guide us thro' the days I shall not see .' 

When the schemes and all the systems. Kingdoms and Republics fall, 
Something kindlier, higher, holier — all for each and each for all? 

All the full-brain, half-brain races, led by Justice, Love, and Truth ; 
All the millions one at length with all the visions of my youth? 

All diseases quench'd by Science, no man halt, or deaf or blind ; 
Stronger ever born of weaker, lustier body, larger mind ? 

orld, a single race, a single tongue — 
—for is not Earth as yet so young ? — 

Every tiger madness muzzled, every serpent passion kill'd. 
Every grim ravine a garden, every blazing desert till'd, 

Robed in universal harvest up to either pole she smiles. 
Universal ocean softly washing all her warless Isles. 

Warless ? when her tens are thousands, and her thousands millions, then — 
.\ll hei harvest all too narrow — who can fancy warless men ? 






Sixty Years After. 




11 die out late then. Will it ever ? late or soon ? 

earth be dead as yon dead world the moon ? 

Dead the new astronomy calls her. . . . On this day and at this hour, 
In this gap between the sandhills, whence you see the Locksley tower, 

Here we met, our latest meeting — Amy — sixty years ago — 
She and I — the moon was falling greenish thro' a rosy glow. 

Just above the gateway tower, and even where you see her now — 

Here we stood and claspt each other, swore the seeming-deathless vow. . . 

Dead, but how her living glory lights the hall, the dune, the grass I 
Vet the moonlight is the sunlight, and the sun himself will pass. 

Venus near her ! smiling downward at this earthlier earth of ours. 
Closer on the Sun, perhaps a world of never fading flowers. 

Hesper, whom the poet call'd the ISringer home of all good things. 
All good things may move in Hesper, perfect peoples, perfect kings. 

Hesper — Venus — were we native to that splendor or in Mars, 

We should see the Globe we groan in, fairest of their evening stars. 

Could we dream of wars and carnage, craft and madness, lust and spite, 
Roaring London, raving Paris, in that point of peaceful light ? 

Might we not in glancing heavenward on a star so silver-fair, 

Yearn, and clasp the hands and murmur, ' Would to God that we were there? 

Forward, backward, backward, forward, in the immeasurable sea, 
Sway'd by vaster ebbs and flows than can be known to you or me. 

All the suns — are these but symbols of innumerable man, 
Man or Mind that sees a shadow of the planner or tlie plan ? 

Is there evil but on earth ? or pain in every peopled sphere ? 
Well be grateful for the sounding watchword ' Evolution' here. 

Evolution ever climbing after some ideal good. 
And Reversion ever dragging Evolution in the mud. 

What are men that He should heed us? cried the king of sacred song ; 
Insects of an hour, that hourly work their brother insect wrong, 

While the silent Heavens roll, and Suns along their fiery way. 
All their planets whirling round them, flash a million miles a day. 

Ided earth before her highest, man, was born, 
may pass when earth is manless and forlorn, 

yet so bounded — pools of salt, and plots of land — 
szure — chains of mountain, grains of sahd ! 






Locksky Hall 




Only That which made us, meant us to be mightier by and by. 
Set the sphere of all the boundless Heavens within the human eye. 

Sent the shadow of Himself, the boundless, thro' the human soul; 
Boundless inward, in the atom, boundless outward, in the Whole. 



Here is Locksley Hall, my gransdon, here the lion-guarded gate. 
Not to-night in Locksley Hall — to-morrow — you, you come so late. 

Wreck'd — your train — or all but wreck'd ? a shatter'd wheel ? a vicious boy 1 
Good, this forward, you that preach it, is it well to wish you joy? 

Is it well that while we range with .Science, glorying in the Time, 
City children soak and blacken soul and sense in city slime .' 

There among the glooming alleys Progress halts on palsied feet, 
Crime and hunger cast our maidens by the thou.sand on the street. 

There the Master scrimps his haggard sempstress of her daily bread, 
There a single sordid attic holds the living and the dead. 

There the smouldering fire of fever creeps across the rotted floor, 
And the crowded couch of incest in the warrens of the poor. 

Nay, your pardon, cry your ' forward,' yours are hope and youth, but I — 
Eighty winters leave tlie dog too lame to follow with the cry, 

Lame and old, and past his time, and passing now into the night; 
Yet I would the rising race were half .is eager for the light. 

Light the fading gleam of Even ? light the glimmer of the dawn '. 
Aged eyes may take the growing glimmer for the gleam withdrawn. 

Far away beyond her myriad coming changes earth will be 
Something other than the wildest modern guess of you and me. 

Karth may reach her earthly-worst, or if she gain her earthly-best, 
Would she find her human offspring this ideal man at rest? 

Forward then, but still remember how the course of Time will swerve. 
Crook and turn upon itself in many a backward streaming curve. 

Not the Hall to-night, my grandson ! Death and Silence hold their own. 
Leave the Master in the first dark hour of his last sleep alone. 

Worthier soul was he than I am, sound and honest, rustic Sq 
Kindly landlord, boon companion — youthful jealousy is a liar. 

r bosom, oust the madness from your 
show you that you have not livei' 






Sixty Years After. 




ire scholars yet but in the lower school, 
vho never proved himself a fool. 

Yonder lies our young sea-village — Art and Grace are less and less : 
Science grows and Beauty dwindles — roofs of slated hideousness ! 

There is one old Hostel left us where they swing the Locksley shield, 
Till the peasant cow shall butt the ' Lion passant ' from his field. 

Poor old Heraldry, poor old History, poor old Poetry, passing hence. 
In the common deluge drowning old political common-sense! 

Poor old voice of eighty crying after voices that have fled ! 
All I loved are vanish'd voices, all my steps are on the dead. 

All the world is ghost to me, and as the phantom disappears. 
Forward far and far from here is all the hope of eighty years. 



spent it o'er his grave — 

me — I refused the hand he gave. 



From that casement where the trailer mantles all the 
I was then in early boyhood, Edith but a child of six- 



While I shelte 
Peept the wins 



a day of drivii 
flower among 



Here to-night ! the Hall to-morrow, when they toll the Ch^iel bell ! 
Shall I hear in one dark room a wailing, 'I have loved thee well.' 



Then a peal that shakes the portal — o 
Her that shrank, and put me from her 



Silent echoes ! '^ 
Move among you 



y Leonard, use and not abuse your day, 
lie, know them, follow him who led the way. 



Strove for sixty widow'd years to help his homelier brother men. 

Served the poor, and built the cottage, raised the school, and drain'd tlie fen. 

Hears he now the Voice that wrong'd him ? who shall swear it cannot be ? 
Earth would never touch her worst, were one in fifty such as he. 

Ere she gain her Heavenly-best, a God must mingle with the game : 
Nay, there may be those about us whom we neither see nor name. 

Felt within us as ourselves, the Powers of Good, the Powers of 111, 
Strowing balm, or shedding poison in the fountains of the Will. 






Prologue— Charge of the Heavy Brigade. 



Follow Lisht, and do the Right— for man can half-control his doom 
Till you find the deathless Angel seated in the vacant tojiib. 



Forward, let the stormy moment flv and mingle wiih the Past. 

I that loathed, have come to love him. Love will conquer at the last. 




Gone at eighty, mine own age, and I and ' 
Then I leave ihee Lord and Master, lates 



will hear the pall ; 
rd of Locksley Hall. 



TO GENERAL HAMLEY. 

Our birches yellowing and from each 

The light leaf falling fast, 
While squirrels from our fiery beech 

Were bearing off the mast, 
You came, and look'd and loved the 

Long known and loved by me. 
Green Sussex fading into blue 

With one gray glimpse of sea ; 
And, gazing from this height alone, 

We spoUe of what had been 
Most marvellous in the wars your own 

Crimean eyes had seen ; 
And now— like old-world inns that 
take 
Some warrior for a sign 
That therewithin a guest may make 

True cheer with honest wine — 
Because von heard the lines I read 

Nor ut'ter'd word of blame, 
1 dare without your leave to head 

These rhymings with your name, 
Who know you but as one of those 

I fain would meet again, 
Yet know you, as your England knows 

That you and all your men 
Were soldiers to her heart's desire. 

When, in the vanish'd year, 
You saw the league-long' rampart-fire 

Flare from Tel-el-Kebir 
Thro' darkness, and the foe was driven, 

And Wolseley overthrew 

Arabi, and the stars in heaven 

Taled, and the glory grew. 




THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY 
BRIGADE AT BALACLAVA. 



OcTOHER 25, 1S54. 



The charge of the gallant three hun- 
dred, the Heavy Brigade ! 

Down the hill, down the hill, thousands 
of Russians, 

Thousands of horsemen, drew to the 
valley— and stav'd ; 

p'or Scarlett and Scarlett's three hun- 
dred were riding by 

Wlien the points of the Russian lances 
arose in the sky ; 

And he call'd ' Left wheel into line 1 ' 
and they wheel'd and obey'd. 

Then he look'd at the host that had 
halted he knew not why, 

And he turn'd half ri>und, and he bad 
his trumpeter sound 

To the charge, and he rode on ahead, 
as he waved his blade 

To the gallant three hundred whose 
glory will never die— 

' Follow,' and up the hill, up the hill, 
up the hill, 

FoUow'd the Heavy Brigade. 

II. 
The trumpet, the gallop, the che 

and the might of the fight I 
Thousands of horsemen had gather'd 

there on the height. 
With a winff Dush'd out to the 



md 



nng to the rig 





Charge of the Heavy Brigade — Epilogue. 



And who shall escape if they close ? 

but he dash'd up alone 
Thro' the great gray slope of men, 
Sway'd his sabre, and held his own 
Like an Englishman there and then j 
All in a moment follow'd with force 
Three that were next in their fiery 

course, ^ 

Wedged themselves in between horse 

and horse, 
Fought for their lives in the narrow 

gap they had made — 
Four amid thousands ! and up the 

hill, up the hill, 
Gallopt the gallant three hundred, the 

Heavy Brigade. 



Fell like a cannonshot. 
Burst like a thunderbolt, 
Crash'd like a hurricane, 
Broke thro' the mass from below. 
Drove thro' the midst of the foe. 
Plunged up and down, to and fro. 
Rode flashing blow upon blow, 
Brave Inniskillens and Greys 
Whirling their sabres in circles of 

light I 
And some of us, all in amaze. 
Who were held for a while from the 

fight, 
And were only standing at gaze. 
When the dark-mufHed Russian 

crowd 
Folded its wings from the left and 

the right, 
And roll'd them around like a 



charge 



the 



When our own good redcoats 

from sight, 
Like drops of blood in a dar 

Andw 



-gray 



turn'd to each other, whisper- 
ing, all dismay'd. 
Lost are the gallant three hundred of 
Scarlett's Brigade ! ' 



' Lost one and all ' were the words 
Mntter'd in our dismay ; 





But they rode like Victors and Lords 
Thro' the forest of lances and swords 
hi the heart of the Russian hordes. 
They rode, or they stood at bay — 
Struck with the sword-hand and slew, 
Down with the. bridle-hand drew 
The foe from the saddle and threw 
Underfoot there in the fray — 
Ranged like a storm or stood like a 

rock 
In the wave of a stormy day ; 
Till suddenly shock u|ion shock 
Stagger'd the mass from without. 
Drove it in wild disarray. 
For our men gallopt up with a cheer 

and a shout. 
And the foeman surged, and waver'd, 

and reel'd 
Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, 

out of the field. 
And over the brow and awav. 



Glory to each and to all, and the 
charge that they made I 

Glory to all the three hundred, and 
all the Brigade I 

Note.— The 'three hundred' of the 
'Heavy Brigade' who made this famous 
charge were the Scots Greys and the 2nd 
squadron of Inniskillings; the remainder 
of the ' Heavy Brigade ' subsequently 
dashing up to their support. 

The 'three' were Scarlett's aid-de-camp, 
Elliot, and the trumpeter and Shegog the 
orderly, who had been close behind him. 



Not this way will you set yo 
\ star among the slar.s. 





Epilogue — To Virgil. 



Tlie barbarism of wars. 
A juster epoch has begun. 



Poet. 

Yet tho' this cheek be gray, 
And that bright hair the modern sun, 

Those eyes the blue to-day, 
Vou wrong me, passionate little friend. 

I would that wars should cease, 
I would the globe from end to end 

Might sow and reap in peace. 
And some new Spirit o'erbear the old. 

Or Trade re-frain the Powers 
From war with kindly links of gold, 

Or Love with wreaths of flowers. 
Slav, Teuton, Kelt, I count them all 

My friends and brother sonis. 
With all the peoples, great and small, 

That wheel between the poles. 
But since, our mortal shadow, 111 

To waste this earth began— 
Perchance from some abuse of Will 

In worlds before the man 
Involving ours — he needs must fight 

To make true peace his own. 
He needs must combat might with 
might. 

Or Might would rule alone ; 
And who loves War for War's own 
sake 

Is fool, or crazed, or worse ; 
But let the patriot-soldier take 

His meed of fame in verse; 
Nay— tho' that realm were in the 
wrong 

For which her warriors bleed, 
It still were right to crown with song 

The warrior's noble deed — 
A crown the Singer hopes may last, 

For so the deed endures ; 
But Song will vanish in the Vast j 

And that large phrase of yours 
' A Star among the stars,' my dear, 

Is girlish talk at best ; 
For dare we dally with the sphere 

As he did half in jest. 
Old Horace ? ' I will strike ' said he 

' The stars with head sublime,' 
But scarce could see, as now we see. 

The man in Space and Time, 
So drew perchance a happier lot 

Than ours, who rhyme to-day. 





The fires that arch this dusky dot- 
Yon myriad-worlded way — 

The vast sun-clusters' gatlier'd blaze. 
World-isles in lonely skies. 

Whole heavens within themselves, 
amaze 
Our brief humanities; 

And so does Earth; for Homer's 
fame, 
Tho' carved in harder stone — 

The falling drop will make his name 



Poet. 
Let it live then— ay, till when? 

Earth passes, all is lost 
In what they prophesy, our wise men; 

Sun-flame or sunless frost. 
And deed and song alike are swept 

Away, and all in vain 
As far as man can see, except 

The man himself remain ; 
And tho', in this lean age forlorn. 

Too many a voice may cry 
That man can have no after-morn. 

Not yet of these am I. 
The man remains, and whatsoe'er 

He wrought of good or brave 
Will mould him thro' the cycle-year 

That dawns behind the grave. 



And here the Singer for his Art 

Not all in vain may plead 
' The song that nerves a nation's 

Is in itself a deed.' 

TO VIRGIL. 

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE 
MANTUANS FOR THE NINETEENTH 
CENTENARY OF VIRGIL's DEATH. 



Roman Virgil, thou that singest 
Ilion's loftv temples robed 
fire. 










/o"^ 1 1 ^ 9 1 1 rr 


■X 




L 


The Dead Prophet. 421 


1 


Ilion falling, Rome arising, 


VIII. 


■ 


wars, and filial faith, and Dido's 


Now thy Forum roars no longer, 


- 






fallen every purple Ca=sar's Ji^ 
dome— 
Tho' thine ocean-roll of rhythm 

sound for ever of Imperial 




i I.aiidscape-lover, lord of language 




more than he that sang the 


Rome — 




1 Works and Days, 






All the chosen coin of fancy 


IX. 




flashing out from many a golden 


Now the Rome of slaves hath perish'd. 




phrase ; 


and the Rome of freemen holds 
her place. 




III. 


I, from out the Northern Island 




Thou thatsingest wheat and woodland, 


sunder'd once from all the 
human race, 




tilth and vineyard, hive and 




horse and herd ; 






All the charm of all the Muses 


X. 




often flowering in a lonely word; 


I salute thee, Mantovano, 

I that loved thee since my day 
began, 
Wielder of the stateliest measure 




Poet of the happy Titvrus 


ever moulded by the lips of 




piping underneath his beechen 
Poet of the poet-satyr 










whom the laughing shepherd 


THE DEAD PROPHET. 




bound with flowers ; 


182-. 




Chanter of the Pollio, glorying 

in the blissful years again to be, 


I. 




Dead! 




Summers of the snakeless meadow. 


And the Muses cried with a stormy 




unlaborious earth and oarless 


cry 




sea; 


' Send them no more, for evermore. 
Let the people die.' 




VI. 






Thou that seest Universal 


n. 




Nature moved by Universal 


Dead! 




Mind; 


' Is it he then brought so low > ' 




Thou majestic in thy sadness 


And a careless people flock'd from 




at the doubtful doom of human 


the fields 




kind ; 


With a purse to pay for the show. 




VII. 

1 Light among the vanish'd ages; 


III. 
Dead, who had served his time, "^ 




. 


star that gildest yet this phan- 
tom shore ; 


Was one of the people's kings. 








Had labor'd in lifting them out of 








Golden branch amid the shadows, 


slime, 








kings and realms that pass to 


And showing them, souls have 






11 


rise no more ; 

HI IS 


~ »_^ 


V 






The Dead Prophet. 



Dumb on the winter heath he lay. 

His friends had stript him bare, 
And roU'd his nakedness everyway 

That all the crowd might stare. 



A storm-worn signpost not to be read, 
And a tree with a moulder'd nest 

On its barkless bones, stood stark by 
the dead ; 
And behind him, low in the West, 



With shifting ladders of shadow and 
light, 

And blurr'd in color and form. 
The sun hung over the gates of Night, 

And glared at a coming storm. 



Then glided a vulturous Keldan 
forth, 
That on dumb death had thriven ; 
They call'd her ' Reverence ' hen 
upon earth, 
And ' The Curse of the Prophet ' ii 
Heaven. 



She knelt— ' We worship him — all 

but wept — 
' So great so noble was he I ' 
She clear'd her sight, she arose, she 

swept 
The dust of earth from her knee. 



'Great ! for he spoke and the people 
heard, 
And his eloquence caught like a 

From zone to zone of the world, till 
his Word 
lad won him a noble name. 



Noble ! he sung, and tht 




Thro' palace and cottage door, 
For he touch'd on the whole sad 
planet of man, 
The kings and the rich and the 
poor ; 



But a sun coming up in his youth 1 
Great and noble— O yes— but yet— 
For man is a lover of Truth, 



And bound to follow, wherever she go 
Stark-naked, and up or down. 

Thro' her high hill-passes of stainless 
snow. 
Or the foulest sewer of the town — 



Noble and great — O ay — but then, 

Tho' a prophet should have his due. 
Was he noblier-fashion'd than other 



Prophet's 



As a lord of the Huma 




We needs must scan hin 




to feet 




Were it but for a wart 


Dramole?' 



His wife and his child stood by him 

tears. 

But she — she push'd them aside. 

' Tho' a name may last for a thousa 

vears. 

Yet a truth is a truth,' she cried. 



And she that had haunted hiS pathwav 

still. 

Had often truckled and cower'd 

When he rose in his wrath, and had 

yielded her will 

To the master, as overpower'd, 





XVIII. 

She crouch'd, she tore him part from 
part, 
And out of his body she drew 
The red ' Blood-eagle' i of liver and 
heart ; 
She held them up to the view ; 



She gabbled, as she groped in th 
dead, 

And all the people were pleased ; 
' See, what a little heart,' she said, 

' And the liver is half-diseased ! ' 



She tore the Prophet after death, 
And the people paid her well. 

Lightnings flicker'd along the heath; 
One shriek'd ' The fires of Hell I ' 



EARLY SPRING. 



Once more the Heavenly Power 

Makes all things new. 
And domes the red-plow'd hills 

With loving blue ; 
The blackbirds have their wills. 

The throstles too. 



Opens a door m Heav( 
From skies of glass 

A Jacob's ladder falls 
On greening grass. 




Before them fleets the shower, 

And burst the buds, 
And shine the level lauds. 

And flash the floods ; 
The stars are from their hands 

Flung thro' the woods. 



The woods with living airs 

How softly fann'd. 
Light airs from where the deep, 

All down the sand. 
Is breathing in his sleep, 

Heard by the land. 

V. 
O follow, leaping blood. 

The season's lure ! 
O heart, look down and up 

Serene, secure, 
Warm as the crocus cup, 

Like snowdrops, pure I 



Past, Future glimpse and fade 
Thro' some slight spell, 

A gleam from vonder vale. 
Some far blue fell, 

And sympathies, how frail. 
In sound and smell ! 



Till at thv chuckled uotf 
Thou twinkling bird, 

The fairv fancies range. 
And, lio,htlv stirr'd. 

Ring little bells uf chang 
From word tu word. 



For now the Heavenly Power 
Makes all things new, 

And thaws the cold, and fills 
The flower with dew ; 

The blackbirds have their wills 
The poets too. 




Prefatory Poem to My Brother's Sonnets. 



REFATORY POEM TO MY 
BROTHER'S SONNETS. 



Midnig/it, June 30, 1879. 



Midnight — in no midsummer tune 
'I'lie breakers lasli the shores : 
The cuckoo of a joyless June 
Is calling out of doors : 

And thou hast vanish'd from thine ow 
To that which looks like rest, 
True brother, only to be known 
Bv those who love thee best. 



Midnight— and joyless June gone by. 
And from the deluged park 
The cuckoo of a worse July 
Is calling thro' the dark : 

But thou art silent underground, 
And o'er thee streams the rain, 
True poet, surely to be found 
When Truth is found acain. 



And, now to these unsummer'd skies 
The summer bird is still, 
Far off a phantom cuckoo cries 
From out a phantom hill ; 

And thro' this midnight breaks the sun 
Of si.xty years awav. 
The light of days vvhen life begun, 
The days that seem to-day. 

When all my griefs were shared with 

thee. 
As all my hopes were thine — 
As all thou wert was one with me, 
May all thou art be mine ! 



'FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE.' 

Row us out from Desenzano, to your 

Sirmione row! 
.So they row'd, and there we landed — 





There to me thro' all the groves of 
olive in the summer glow, 

There beneath the Roman ruin where 
the purple flowers grow. 

Came that ' Ave atque Vale ' of the 
Poet's hopeless woe, 

Tenderest of Roman poets nineteen- 
hundred years ago, 

' Frater Ave atque Vale ' — as we wan- 
der'd to and fro 

Gazing at the Lydian laughter of the 
Garda Lake below 

Sweet Catullus's all-but-island, olive- 
silvery Sirmio ! 



HELEN'S TOWER.i 

Helen's Tower, here I stand. 
Dominant over sea and land. 
Son's love built me, and I hold 
Mother's love in letter'd gold. 
Love is in and out of time, 
I am mortal stone and lime. 
Would my granite girth were strong 
As eitlier love, to last as long! 
I should wear my crown entire 
To and thro' the Doom.-iday fire, 
And be found of angel eyes 
In earth's recurring Paradise. 



EPITAPH ON LORD STRAT- 
FORD DE REDCLIFFE. 



Wi 



iiNSTER Abbey. 



Thou third great Canning, stand 
among our best 
And noblest, now thy long day's 
work hath ceased. 
Here .silent in. our Minster of the 
West 
Who wert the voice of Enoland in 
the East. 

' Wnllen at the req 





Epitaph on General Goiilon — Hands all Round. 



EPITAPH 
ON GENERAL GORDON. 



Warrior of God, man's friend, and 
tyrant's foe, 
Now somewhere dead far in the 
waste Soudan, 
Thou livest in all hearts, for all men 
know 
This earth has never borne a nobler 



EPITAPH ON CAXTON. 

In St. Marg.aret's, Westminster. 
Fiat Lux (his motto). 

Thy prayer was ' Light — more Light — 

while Time shall last ! ' 
Thou sawest a glory growing on the 

night. 
But not the shadows which that light 

would cast. 
Till shadows vanish in the Light of 

Light. 



TO THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. 

O P.\TRI0T Statesman, be thou wise to 

know 
The limits of resistance, and the 

bounds 
Determining concession ; still be bold 
Not only to slight praise but suffer 



And be thy heart a fortres 



to 1 




The day against 


he moi 


ent 


and 


he 


vear 
Against the day 

heard 
Thro' all the yell^ 

feud 


thy vo 
and CO 


ice. 


a music 
r-yells of 




And faction, 
make 

This ever-changii 
stance. 

In changing, chime with never-chang- 
ing Law. 



lid thy will, a pow 

vorld of circun 



HANDS ALL ROUND. 

First pledge our Queen this solemn 
night. 

Then drink to England, every guest ; 
That man's the best Cosmopolite 

Who loves his native country best. 
May freedom's oak for ever live 

With stronger life from day to dav; 
That man's the true Conservative 

Who lops the moulder'd branch 

Hands all round ! 

God the traitor's hope confound! 

To this great cause of Freedom drink. 



To all the loyal hearts who long 

To keep our English Empire whole ! 
To all our noble sons, the strong 

New F:ngland of the Southern Pole ! 
To England under Indian skies. 

To those dark millions of her realm ! 

To Canada whom we love and prize. 

Whatever statesman hold the helm. 

Hands all round I 

God the traitor's hope confound ! 

To this great name of England drink, 

my friends. 

And all her glorious empire, round 

and round. 



To all our 

True leaders of the land's desire ! 
To both our Houses, may they see 

Beyond the borough and the shire ! 
We sail'd wherever ship could sail. 

We founded many a mighty state ; 
Pray God our greatness may not fail 

Thro' craven fears of being great. 
Hands all round I 




Freedom— To H. R. H. F, 



God the traitor's hope conEouiul ! 
To this great cause of Freedom driiii<, 

my friends, 
And the great name of England, 

round and round. 



I. 
O THOU so fair in summers gone. 

While yet thy fresh and virgin soul 
Inform'd the piUar'd Parthenon, 

The glittering Capitol ; 

II. 
So fair in southern sunshine bathed, 

But scarce of such majestic mien 
As here with forehead vapor-swathed 

In meadows ever green ; 



For thou — when Athens reign'd and 
Rome, 
Thy glorious eyes were dimm'd with 
pain 
To mark in many a freeman's home 
The slave, the scourge, the chain ; 



O follower of the Vision, still 
In motion to the distant gleam, 

Howe'er blind force and brainless will 
May jar thy golden dream 



Of Knowledge fusing class with class. 
Of civic Hate no more to be. 

Of Love to leaven all the mass, 
Till every Soul be free ; 

VI. 

Who yet, like Nature, wouldst not mar 
By changes all too fierce and fast 

This order of Her Human Star, 
This heritage of the past ; 





O scorner of the party cry 

That wanders from the public good, 
Thou — when the nations rear on high 

Their idol smear'd with blood, 



And when they roll their idol down- 
Of saner worship sanely proud ; 

Thou loather of the lawless crown 
As of the lawless crowd; 



How long thine ever-growing mind 
Hath still'd the blast and strown 
the wave, 

Tho' some of late would raise a wind 
To sing thee to thy grave. 



Men loud against all forms of power — 
Unfurnish'd brows, tempestuous 
tongues — 

Expecting all things in an hour — 
Brass mouths and iron lungs ! 



TO H. R. H. PRI>rCESS 
BEATRICE. 



nake day of human 
pains, and 



Two Suns of Love 

life, 
Which else with all ; 

griefs, and deaths 
Were utter darkness^one, the Sun of 

dawn 
That brightens thro' the Mother's ten- 
der eyes, 
.\nd warms the child's awakening 

world — and one 
The later-rising Sun of spousal Love, 
Which from her household orbit draws 

the child 
To move in other spheres. The 

Mother weeps 
At that white funeral of the single life. 
Her maiden daughter's marriage ; and 

her tears 
.'\re half of pleasure, half of pain— the 

child 





leaving her! but 

daughter, whose all-faithful, filial 

eyes 
Have seen the loneliness of earthly 

thrones, 
Wilt neither quit the widow'd Crown, 

nor let 
'I'his later light of Love have risen in 



■nig 



I'he 



wo that 1 
nier life. 



' the Mother's home, 
'e thee, lead a sum- 



Sway'd by each Love, and swaying to 

each Love, 
Like some conjectured planet in mid 

htaven 
Between two Suns, and drawing down 

from both 
The light and genial warmth of double 



Vou, you, // you shall fail to under- 
stand 
What England is, and what her all- 
in-all, 
On vou will come the curse of all the 
land. 
Should this old England fall 

Which Nelson left so great. 

1 The speaker said that ' he should like 
to be assured that other outlying portions 
of the Empire, the Crown colonies, and im- 
portant coaling stations were being as 
promptly and as thoroughly fortified as the 
various capitals of the self-governing colo- 
nies. He was credibly informed this was 
not so. It was impossible, also, not to feel 
some degree of anxiety about the efficacy 
of present provision to defend and protect, 



tile fleet of the Empire. A 

of anxiety, so far as the colo- 

cerned, was the apparently 

ovision for the rapid manu- 

and their prompt 




Ou 




sle, the mightiest Ocean-power 

on earth, 
: own fair isle, the lord of every 
sea — 
Her fuller franchise — what would that 
be worth — 
Her ancient fame of Free — 

Were she . . . a fallen state.' 



Her dauntless army scatter'd, and so 
small. 
Her island-myriads fed from alien 
lands— 
The fleet of England is her all-in-all ; 
Her fleet is in your hands, 

And in her fleet her Fate. 



despatch when orde 
tination. Hence the 



not of Great Britam alone, but of the 
whole Empire. But the keystone of the 
whole was the necessity for an overwhelm- 
ingly powerful fleet and efficient defence 
for all necessary coaling stations. This 
was as essential for the colonies as for 
Great Britain. It was the one condition 
for the continuance of the Empire. AH 
that Continental Powers did with respect 
to armies England should effect with her 
navy. It was essentially a defensive force, 
and could be moved rapidly from point to 
point, but it should be equal to all that was 
expected from it. It was to strengthen 
the fleet that colonists would first readily 
tax themselves, because they realized how- 
essential a powerful fleet was to the 
safety, not only of that extensive commerce 
sailing in every sea, but ultimately to the 
security of the distant portions of the 
Empire. Who could estimate the loss 
involved in even a brief period of dis- 
aster to the Imperial Navy ? Any amount 
of money timely expended in preparation 
would be quite insignificant when com- 
pared with the possible calamity he had re- 
ferred lo.'— Extract from Sir Graham 
Berry's Speech at the Colonial institute, 
qth November, i386 





Poets and their Bibliographies. 



Vou, you, that have the ordering of 
her fleet, 

If you should only compass her dis- 
grace, 
When all men starve, the wild mob's 
million feet 
Will kick you from your place, 

But then too late, too late. 



OPENING OF THE INDIAN 
AND COLONIAL EXHIBI- 
TION BY THE QUEEN. 

I Written at the Request of the Prince 
of Wales. 



Welcome, welcome with one voice! 
In your welfare we rejoice, 
.Sons and brothers that have sent, 
From isle and cape and continent, 
Produce of your field and flood, 
.Mount and mine, and primal wood ; 
Works of subtle brain and hand, 
■And splendors of the morning land. 
(Jifts from every British zone ; 
Britons, hold vour own ! 



IMay we find, as ages run. 
The mother featured in the son ; 
And may yours for ever be 
That old strength and constancy 
Which has made your fathers great 
In our ancient island State, 
And wherever her flag fly. 
Glorying between sea and sky. 
Makes the might of Britain known ; 
Britons, hold your own ! 



Britain fought her sons of yore- 
Britain fail'd; and never more, 
Careless of our growing kin, 
Shall we sin our fathers' sin. 
Men that in a narrower day — 
Unprophetic rulers they — 




Drove from out the mothe 
That young eagle of the West 
To forage for herself alone ; 

Britons, hold your own ! 



Sharers of our glorious past. 
Brothers, must we part at last .> 
Shall we not thro' good and ill 
Cleave to one another still .> 
Britain's myriad voices call, 
' Sons, be welded each and all, 
Into one imperial whole, 
One with Britain, heart and soul 
One life, one flag, one fleet, one 
Throne!' 
Britons, hold your own .! 



POETS AND THEIR BIBLIO- 
GRAPHIES. 

Old poets foster'd under friendlier 
skies. 
Old Virgil who would write ten 

lines, they sav. 
At dawn, and' lavish all the golden 
day 
To make them wealthier in his reader's 

eyes; 
.\nd you, old popular Horace, you the 
wise 
.\dviser of the nine-vears-ponder'<l 

lay, 
.\nd you, that wear a wreath of 
sweeter bay, 
Catullus, whose dead songster never 

dies ; 
If, glancing downward on the kindly 
sphere 
That once had roll'd you round and 

round the Sun, 
You see your Art still shrined in 
human shelves. 
You should be jubilant that you fl 
ished here 
Before the Love of Letters, o 
done. 
Had swampt the sacred poels ' 
themselves. 




D E iVi E T E R 

AND OTHER POEM: 



rO THE MARQUIS OE UV 

FERIN AND AVA. 



At times our Britain cannot rest, 
At times lier steps are swift and ras 
Slie moving, at her girdle clash 

The golden keys of East and West. 



Not swift or rash, when late she lent 
The sceptres of her West, her East, 
To one, that ruling has increased 

Her greatness and her self-content. 



Your rule has made the people love 
Their ruler. Your viceregal dav 
Have added fulness to the phrase 

Of ' Gauntlet in the velvet glove.' 



But since vour name will grow wit 
Time, 
Not all, as honoring your fair fame 
Of Statesman, have I made th 

A golden portal to mv rhyme : 



But more, that you and yours may 
know 
From me and mine, how dear a debt 
We owed you, and are owine vet 

To you and yours, and still would owe. 



For he — your India was his Fate, 
And drew him over sea to you — 
He fain had ranged her thro' and 
thro,' 

To serve her myriads and the State, — 

VII. 

soul that, watch'd from earliest 
youth. 



And on thro' many a brightening 

year, 
Had never swerved for craft or fear, 
By one side-path, from simple truth ; 



Who might have chased and cl 



spt 




And caught her chaplet here — and 

there 
In haunts of jungle-poison'd air 
The flame of life went wavering down ; 



But ere he left your fatal shore, 
And lay on that funereal boat. 
Dying, ' Unspeakable ' he wrote 

'Their kindness,' and he wrote 



And sacred is the latest word ; 

And now the Was, the Might-have- 



Are dreams that scarce will lei me be. 
Not there to bid mv boy farewell. 
When That within 'the coffin fell, 

Fell— and flash'd into the Red Sea, 



Beneath a hard Arabian moon. 

And alien stars. To question, why 
The sons before the fathers die. 

Not mine ! and I may meet him soon ; 

XIII. 

But while my life's late eve endures. 
Nor settles into hueless gray. 
My memories of his briefer day 

\Vil)'mix with love for vou and yours. 





0>i the Jubilee of Queen Victoria. 



ON THE JUHILEK OF QUEEN 
VICTORIA. 



Fifty times the rose has flower'd 

and faded, 
Fifty times the gokieii harvest fallen, 
Since our Queen assumed the globe, 

the sceptre. 



She beloved for a kindliness 
Rare in Fable or History, 
Queen, and Empress of India, 
Crown'd so long with a diadem 
Never worn by a worthier. 
Now with prosperous auguries 
Comes at last to the bounteous 
Crowning year of her Jubilee. 



III. 

Nothing of the lawless, of the Despot, 
Nothing of the vulgar, or vainglori- 
ous. 
All is gracious, gentle, great and 
Queenly. 



IV. 

You then joyfully, all of you, 
Set the mountain aflame to-night. 
Shoot your stars to the firma- 
ment, 
Deck your houses, illuminate 
All your towns for a festival. 
And in each let a multitude 
Loyal, each, to the heart of it. 
One full voice of allegiance. 
Hail the fair Ceremonial 
Of this year of her Jubilee. 



Queen, as true to womanhood as 

Queenhood, 
Glorying in the glories of her people, 
Sorrowing with the sorrows of the 





You, that wanton in affluence. 
Spare not now to be bountiful. 
Call your poor to regale with 

All the lowly, the destitute. 
Make their neighborhood health- 
fuller, 
Give your gold to the Hospital, 
Let the weary be comforted. 
Let the needy be banqueted, 
Let the niaim'd in his heart 

rejoice 
At this glad Ceremonial, 
And this year of her Jubilee. 

VII. 

Henry's fifty years are all in shadow, 
Gray with distance Edward's fifty 



Ev'n her Grandsire's fifty half forgo 



via. 

You, the Patriot Architect, 
You that shape for Eternity, 
Raise a stately memorial. 
Make it regally gorgeous. 
Some Imperial Institute, 
Rich in symbol, in ornament. 
Which may speak to the centu- 
ries. 
All the centuries after us. 
Of this great Ceremonial, 
And this year of her Jubilee. 



Fifty years of ever-broadening Com- 
merce ! 

Fifty years of ever-brightening 
Science ! 

Fifty years of ever-widening Empire! 



You, the Mighty, the Fortunate, 
You, the Lord-territorial, 
You, the Lord-manufacturer, 
You, the hardy, laborious. 
Patient children of Albion, 
You, Canadian, Indian, 





To Professor Jebb — Dcmeter and Persephone. 



Australasian, African, 
All your hearts be in harmony 
All your voices in unison. 
Singing ' Hail to the glorious 
Golden year of her Jubilee ! * 



Are there thunders moaning in the dis- 
tance ? 
Are there spectres moving in the dark- 
Trust the Hand of Light will lead her 

people, 
Till the thunders pass, the spectres 

vanish. 
And the Light is Victor, and the 

darkness 
Dawns into the Jubilee of the Ages. 



TO PROFESSOR JEBB, 

WITH THE Following Poem. 

F.MR things are slow to fade away. 
Bear witness you, that yesterday^ 

From out the Ghost of Pindar in 
you 
Roll'd an Olympian ; and they say 2 

That here the torpid mummy wheat 
Of Egypt bore a grain as sweet 

As that which gilds the glebe of 
England, 
Sunn'd with a summer of milder heat. 



So may this legend for awhile. 
If greeted by your classic smile, 

Tho' dead in its Trinacrian Enna, 
Blossom again on a colder isle. 



DEMETER AND PERSEPHONE. 

(In Enn.^.) 

Faint as a climate-changing bird that 

flies 
.\11 night across the darkness, and at 

dawn 



They say, for the fact i 





Falls on the threshold of he 

land, 
And 

Led upward by the God of ghosts and 

dreams. 
Who laid thee at Eleusis, dazed and 

dumb 
With passing thro' at once from state 

Until I brought thee hither, that the 

day. 
When here thy hands let fall the 

gather'd flower. 
Might break thro' clouded memories 

once again 
On thy lost self. A sudden nightingale 
Saw thee, and flash'd into a frolic of 

song 
And welcome; and a gleam as of the 

When first she peers along the trem- 
ulous deep, 

Fled wavering o'er thy face, and 
chased away 

That shadow of a likeness to the 
king 

Of shadows, thy dark mate. Perse- 
phone ! 

Queen of the dead no more— mv 
child! Thine eyes 

Again were human-godlike, and the 



ning fleece of win- 
his day from head 



Burst from a s 

ter gray 
And robed the 

to feet— 
'Mother !' and I was folded in thine 

arms. 

Child, those imperial, disimpas- 

sion'd eyes 
Awed even me at first, thy mother — 

eyes 
That oft had seen the serpent-wanded 

|Jower 
Draw downward into Hades with 

his drift 
Of flickering spectres, lighted fro; 

below 
By the red race of fiery Phlegeth 
But when before have Gods or 

beheld 





Dcmcter and Feisephone. 



The Life that had descended re- 
And lighted from above him b 

the mother's chil 



So ill this pleasant vale we stand 

again, 
The field of Enna, now once more 

ablaze 
With flowers that brighten as thy 

footstep falls, 
All flowers — but for one black blur of 

earth 
Left by that closing chasm, thro' which 

the car 
Of dark Aidoneus rising rapt thee 

hence. 
And here, my child, tho' folded in 



And set the mother waki 

To find her sick one whole 

agai 



ong 



the 



^ht 



thii 



of niother- 
the naked 



and cried, 
' Where is my loved one ? W" herefore 

do ye wail ? ' 
And out from all the night an answer 

shrill'd, 
' We know not, and we know not wh\- 

I climb'd on all the cliffs of all the seas. 
And ask'd the waves that moan about 

the world 
'Where? do ye make your moaning 

for my child ?' 
And round from all the world the 

voices came 
' We know not, and we know not why 



■ Whe 



red fro 



I feel the deathless heai 

hood 
Within me shudder, les 

glebe I 

Should yawn once more into the gulf, [ 

and thence 
The shrillv whinnyings of the team of 

Heil, 
Ascending, pierce the glad and song- 
ful air. 
And all at once their arch'd necks, mid- 

night-maned, 
Jet upward thro' the mid-day blossom. 

No! 
For, see, thv foot has touch'd it ; all 

the si>ace 
Of blank earth-baldness clothes itself 

afresh. 
And breaks into the crocns-nurple 

hour 
That saw thee vanish. 




many a cot, and 
infants in the 



woods, 
I peer'd thro' 

the stor 
Of Autumn sv 

heard 
The murmur of their temple: 



ept; 



OSS the city, and 



me. 



Me, 

' Where 
And fled by m 



desolate Mother ! 
-and turn'd, 
• a waste, forlorn of 



And grieved for man thro' all my grief 

for thee, — 
The jungle rooted in his shatter'd 

hearth, 
The serpent coil'd about his broken 

shaft. 
The scorpion crawling over naked 

skulls;— 
I saw the tiger in the ruin'd fane 
Spring from his fallen God, but trace 

of thee 
I saw not ; and far on, and, following 








1 


1 


. /fm 1 1 -g ? 1 1 m^i 1 


5 


Bemeter and Persephone. 433 " jf 


' We know not, for we spin the lives of 


Pale at my grief, drew down before 1 

his time 111 
Sickening, and /Etna kept her winter 1 






And not of Gods, and know not why 




t^ we spin ! 


snow. ^ 




There is a Fate beyond us.' Nothing 


Then He,' the brother of this Dark- 




knew. 


ness, He 
Who still is highest, glancing f)om his 




Last as the likeness of a dying man, 


height 




Without his knowledge, from him flits 


On earth a fruitless fallow, when he 




to warn 


miss'd 




A far-off friendship that he comes no 


The wonted steam of sacrifice, the 




more, 


praise 




So he, the God of dreams, who lieard 


And prayer of men, decreed that thou 




my cry, 


should'st dwell 




Drew from thyself the likeness of 


For nine white moons of each whole 




thyself 


year with me, 




Without thy knowledge, and thy 


Three dark ones in the shadow with 




shadow past 


thy King. 
Once more the reaper in the gleam 




Before me, crying ' The Bright one in 




the highest 


of dawn 




Is brother of the Dark one in the lowest. 


Will see me by the landmark far 




And Bright and Dark have sworn that 


away. 




I, the child 


Blessing his field, or seated in the 

dusk 1 




Of thee, the great Earth-Mother, thee. 




the Power 


Of even, by the lonely threshing-floor, 




That lifts her buried life from gloom 


Rejoicing in the harvest and the 




to bloom, 


grange. 




Should be for ever and for evermore 


Yet I, Earth-Goddess, am but ill- 




The Bride of Darkness.' 


content j 
With them, who still are highest. 




So the Shadow wail'd. 


Those gray heads. 




Then I, Earth-Goddess, cursed the 


What meant they by their ' Kate 




Gods of Heaven. 


beyond the Fates ' 




I would not mingle with their feasts; 


But vounger kindlier Gods to bear us 




to me 


down. 




Their nectar smack'd of hemlock on 


As we bore down the Gods before us ? 




the lips. 


Gods, 




Their rich ambrosia tasted aconite. 


To quench, not hull the thunderbolt. 




The man, that only lives and loves an 


to stay. 




hour. 


Not spread the plague, the famine ; 




Seem'd nobler than their hard Eter- 
nities. 


Gods indeed, 
To send the moon into the night and 




My quick tears kill'd the flower, mv 


break 




ravings hush'd 


The sunless halls of Hades into 




The bird, and lost in uttergrief I fail'd 


Heaven ? 




To send my life thro' olive-yard and 


Till thy dark lord accept and love 
the Sun, 






.\nd golden grain, my gift to helpless 


And all the Shadow die into the 'T' 
Light, 1 1 
When thou Shalt dwell the whole 






Rain-rotten died the wheat, the barley- 






spears 


bright vear with me, 






Were hoUow-husk'd, the leaf fell, and 


And souls of'men, who i^rew beyond 




k 


the sun. 


their race. 


3-i U2 I 1 1 LlIVI I 


_ 








Of Death and Hell; and thou that 

hast from men, 
As Queen of Death, that worship 

which is Fear, 
Henceforth, as having risen from out 

the dead, 
Shalt ever send thy life along with 

From buried grain thro' springing 

blade, and bless 
Their garner'd Autumn also, reap 

with me, 
Earth-mother, in the harvest hymns of 

Earth 
The worship which is Love, and see 

no more 
The Stone, the Wheel, the dimly- 
glimmering lawns 
Of that Elysium, all the hateful 

fires 
Of torment, and the shadowy warrior 

glide 
Along the silent field of Asphodel. 



Naay, noa mander ^ o' use to be callin ' 

'im Roa, Roi, Roa, 
Fur the dog's stoan-dcaf, an' e's blind, 

'e can naither stan' nor goa. 

But I means fur tomaake 'is owd aage 
as 'appy as iver 1 can. 

Fur I o'aws o'ad Roaver moor nor I 
iver oawd mottal man. 

Thou's rode of 'is back when a babby, 
afoor thou was gotten too owd, 

Fur' e'd fetch an' carry like owt, 'e 
was alius as good as gowd. 

Eh, but 'e'd fight wi' a will wien 'e 
fowt ; 'e could howd ^ is oan, 

An' Roa was the dog as knaw'd when 
an' wheere to bury his boane. 

2 Manner. = Hold. 





Fur 'e'd niver done 

ashaamed on, when we was i' 
Howlaby Daale. 

An' 'e sarved me sa well when 'e 
lived, that, Dick, when 'e cooms 
to be dead, 

1 thinks as I'd like fur to hev soon, 
soort of a sarvice read. 

Fur 'e's moor good sense na the Parlia- 
ment man 'at stans fur us 'ere. 

An' Fd voat fur 'im, my oan sen, if 'e 
could but Stan fur the Shere. 

' Faaithful an' True' — them words be 
i' Scriptur — an' Faaithful an' 
True 

Ull be fun' 1 upo' four short legs ten 

An' niaaybe they'll walk upo' two but 
I knaws thev runs upo' four- — 

Bedtime, Dicky ! but waait till tha 'ears 
it be strikin' the hour. 

Fur I wants to tell tha o' Roa when 
we lived i' Howlaby Daale, 

Ten year sin — Naay — naay ! tha mun 
nobbut hev' one glass of aale. 

Straange an' owd-farran'd ' the 'ouse, 
an' belt* long afoor my daay 

Wi' haiife o' the chimleys a-twizzen'd » 
an' twined like a band o' haay. 

The fellers as maakes them picturs 
'ud coom at the fall o' the year. 

An' sattle their ends upo stools to 
picturthe door-poorch theere. 

An' the Heagle 'as hed two heads 
stannin' theere o' the brokken 
stick ; « 

, Found. 3 • Ou ' as in ' house' 

a' Owd-tarran'd,' old-fashioned. 

* Built. ^ 'Twizzen'd,' twisted. 

• On a staSf rngute. 





Ou'd Roii. 



All" they niver 'ed seed sich ivin' i as 
graw'd hall ower the brick ; 

An' theere i' the 'ouse one night — 
but it's down, an' all on it now 

Goan into mangles an' tonups,''^ an' 
1 aaved slick thnif by the plow — 

Theere, when the 'ouse wur a house, 
one night I wur sittin' aloan, 

\Vi Koaver athurt my feeat, an' 
sleeapin still as a stoan, 

Of a Christmas Eave, an' as cowd as 
this, an' the midders ^ as white. 

An' the fences all on 'em bolster'd oop 
wi' the windle* that night; 

An' the cat wur a-sleeapin alongside 
Roaver, but I wur awaake. 

An' smoakin' an" thinkin' o' things — 
Doant maake thysen sick wi' 
the caake. 



Fur the men ater supper 'ed sung their 
songs an' 'ed 'ed their beer, 

An' 'ed goan their waays; ther was 
nobbut three, an' noan on 'em 
theere. 

They was all on 'em fear'd o' the 
Ghoast an' dussn't not sleeap i' 
the 'ouse. 

But Dicky, the Ghoast moastlins°was 
nol^but a rat or a mouse. 

An' I loookt out wonst* at the night, 
an" the daale was all of a thaw, 

Fur I seed the beck coomin' down like 
a long black snaake i' the snaw. 

An' I heard great heaps o' the snaw 

slushin' down fro' the bank to 
the beck, 

An' then as I stood i' the doorwaay, I 
aid it drip o' my neck. 





Saw I turn'd in agean 

the good owd til 

goan. 
An" the munney they maade by the 

war, an' the times 'at was 

coomin' on ; 

Fur I thowt if the Staate was agawin' 
to let in furriners' wheat, 

Howiver was British farmers to stan' 
agean o' their feeat. 

Howiver was I fur to find my rent an' 

to paay my men .' 
An' all along o' the feller ^ as turn'd 

'is back of hissen. 

Thou slep i' the chamber above us, 
we couldn't ha' 'eard tha call, 

: . Moother 'ed tell'd ma to bring tha 
down, an' thy craadle an' all ; 

Fur the gell o' the farm 'at slep wi' 
tha then 'ed gotten wer leave, 

Fur to goa that night to 'er foalk by 
cause o' the Christmas Eave ; 



But I clean forgot tha, my lad, when 
Moother 'ed gotten to bed. 

An' I slep i' my chair hup-on-end, an' 
the Freea Traade runn'd 'i my 
'ead. 



Till 






Squire walkt in, ai 
him ' Squire, ya'i 



Then I seed at 'is faace wur as red as 
the Yule-block theer i' the 
graate. 

An' 'e says ' can ya paay me the rent 
to-night .' ' an' I ' savs to 'im 
' Noa,' 

An' 'e cotch'd howd hard o' mv hairm ^ 
'Then hout to-night tha shall 



' Tha'U niver,' says I, 'be a-turnin 
hout upo' Christmas Eave ' : 

Then I waaked an' I fun it 

Roiiver a-tuggin' an' tearin' my 

slieave. 

1 Peel. 





'I'iien 'e tummled up stairs, fur I 'eard 
Mm, as if 'e'd 'a brokken 'is 
neck, 

An' I'd clear forgot, little Dicky, ihy 
chaumber door wouldn't sncck;- 

An' I slep' i' my chair ageiin wi' my 
hairm hingin' down to the floor, 

An' I thosvt it was Roaver a-tuggin' an' 
tearin' me wuss nor afoor. 

An' I thowt 'at I kick'd 'im agean, 
but I kick'd thy Moother 
istead. 

' What arta snorin' theere fur ? (he 
house is afire,' she said. 

Thy Moother 'ed bean a-naggin about 

the gell o' the farm. 
She offens 'ud spy summut wrong 

when there warn't not a mossc-l 

o' harm ; 

An' she didn't not solidly mean I wur 
gawin' that waay to the bad, 

Fnr the gell* was as howry a trollopc 
as iver traapes'd i' the squad. 

out Moother was free of 'er tongue, as 
I offens 'ev tell'd 'er mysen, 

.'^.T I kep i' my chair, fnr I thowt she 
was nobbut a-rilin' ma then. 

An' I says ' I'd be good to tha, Bess, if 
tha'd onywaiiys let ma be [;ood,' 

liiit she skelpt ma haafe ower i' the 
chair, an' scretad like a Howl 
gone wud*! — 



Mad. a Latch. 

Tl.e girl was as dirty a slut as ever 
udged in the mud, but there is a sense of 
traiipes'd ' which is not 
xpressed in ' trudged.' 

d me and shrieked 
I owl gone mad. 




Yit I beant sich a Nowt ^ of all N'owts 
as'ull hallusdoas 'e's bid.' 

' But the stairs is afire,' she said ; then 
1 seed 'er a-cryin', I did. 

An' she beiild 'Ya mun saave little 
Dick, an' be sharp about il an' 
all,' 

Sa I runs to the yard fur a lether, an' 
sets 'im agean the wall. 

An' I claums an' I mashes the winder 
hin, when I gits to the top, 

Hut the heat druv liout i' my heyes till 
I feald mysen ready 'to drop. 

Thy Moother was howdin' the lether, 
an' tellin' me not to be skeiird, 

An' I wasn't afeard, or I thinks least- 
waays as I wasn't afeard ; 

Hut I couldn't see fur the smoake 
wheere thou was a-liggin, mv 

An' Roaver was theere i' the chaum- 
ber a-yowlin' an' yaupin' like 



.^n' thou was a-bealan' likewise, an' a- 
squealin', as if tha was bit. 

An' it wasn't a bite but a burn, fur the 
merk's' o' thy shou'der yit ; 

Then I call'd out Roa, Roa, Roa, thaw 
I didn't haafe think as 'e'd 'ear. 

But 'e c-oom',/ tliriif the fire 'ivi' my 
Iniirii /' 'is moillli to the winder 
theere ! 

He coom'd like a Hangel o' marcy as 
soon as 'e 'eard 'is naame. 

Or like tother Ilnngel i' Scriptur 'at 
summun seed i' the flaame. 





When summim "ed hax'd fur a son, an 
'e promised a son to she, 

An' Roa was as good as the Hangel i' 
saavin' a son fur me. 

Sa I browt tha down, an' [ says' ' I 
mun gaw up agean fur Roa.' 

' Gaw up agean fur the varmint ? ' I 
tell'd 'er ' Ves I niun goa.' 

An' I claumb'd up agean to the winder, 
an' clemm'd ' owd Roa by the 
'ead. 

An' 'is 'air coom'd off i' my 'ands an' 
I taaked 'im at fust fur dead ; 

Fur 'e smell'd like a herse a-singein', 
an' seem'd as blind as a poop. 

An' haafe on 'im bare as abublin'. '-^ 
I couldn't wakken 'im oop, 



, fur the barn ' 



an' the 

An' /kep a-callin' o' Roa till 'e wag- 
gled 'is taail fur a bit. 

But the cocks kep a-crawin' an' 
crawin' all night, an* I 'ears 'en> 
yit; 



An' the dogs 


wasa-yowlin'all round. 


andtho 


1 was a-squealin' thysen, 


An' Moother v 


vas uaggm'an' groiinm' 


an' moa 


nnr' an' naggm' agean ; 



I 'card the bricks an' the baulks'' 
rummie down when the ronf 
gev waay, 

the fire was a-raagin' an' raavin' 
an' roarin' like judgment daily. 

rm enew theere sewer-ly, but the 

■ diddled and huddled togither, 
happt * wersens oop as we 




An' I browt Roii round, but Moother 
'ed bean sa soak'd wi' the thaw 

'At she cotch'd 'er death o' cuwd that 
night, poor soul, i' the straw. 




fe <y the \K 


rish runnVloopwh 


the rigtrc 


e ' was tummlin' in 


laate-but 


It's allowernow-ha 


hower— a 


i' ten year sm ; 



Too laate, tha mun git tha to bed, but 
I'll coom an' I'll squench the 
light, 

Fur we moat 'ev naw moor fires — and 
soa little Dick, good-night. 



Manv a hearth upon our dark globe 
sighs after many a vanish'd 
face. 

Many a planet by many a sun may roll 
with the dust of a vanish'd race. 



Raving politics, never at rest — as this 
poor earth's pale history runs, — 

What is it all but a trouble of ants in 
the gleam of a million million 



Lies upon this side, lies upon that side, 
truthless violence mourn'd by 
the Wise, 

Thousands of voices drowning his own 
in a popular torrent of lies upon 
. lies ; 



Stately purposes, valor in battle, glori- 
ous annals of army and fleet, 

Death for the right cause, death for the 
wrong cause, trumpets of victory, 
groans of defeat ; 



The beaiT 





Innocence seethed in her mother's 
milk, and Charity setting the 
martvr aflame ; 

Thraldom who walks with the Iwn- 
ner of Freedom, and recks not 
to ruin a realm in her name. 



Faith at her zenith, or all but lost in 

the gloom of doubts that darken 

the schools ; 
Craft with a bunch of all-heal in her 

hand, follow'd up by her vassal 

legion of fools ; 



Trade flying over a thousand seas with 

her spice and her vintage, her 

silk and her corn ; 
Desolate offing, sailorless harbors, 

famishing populace, wharves 

forlorn ; 



VIII. 

.Star of the morning, Hope in the sun- 
rise ; gloom of the evennig. Life 
at a close ; 

Pleasure who flaunts on her wide 
downway with her flying robe 
and her poison' d rose ; 



IX. 

, that has crawl'd from the corpse 
of Pleasure, a worm which 
writhes all day, and at night 
up again in the heart of the 
sleeper, and stings him back to 
the curse of the light ; 



Wealth with his wines and his wedded 
harlots ; honest Poverty, bare 
to the bone ; 

Opulent .'\varice, lean as Poverty; 
Flattery gilding the rift in a 




.XII. 

Love for the maiden, crown'd with 
marriage, no regrets for aught 
that has been, 

Household happiness, gracious chil- 
dren, debtless competence, 
golden mean ; 



National hatreds of whole genera- 
tions, and pigmy spites of the 
village spire; 

Vows that will last to the last death- 
ruckle, and vows that are snapt 
in a moment of tire ; 



He that has lived for the lust of the 
minute, and died in the doing 
it, flesh without mind ; 

He that has nail'd all flesh to the 
Cross, till Self died out in the 
love of his kind ; 



.Spring and Summer and Autumn and 

Winter, and all these old 

revolutions of earth ; 
.\11 new-old revolutions of Empire — 

change of the tide — what is all 

of it worth ? 



What the philosophic; 

ences, poesy, varymg voices ot 

prayer ? 
All that is noblest, all that is liasest, 

all that is filthy with all that is 

fair ? 





The Ring. 



XVII. 

What is it all, if we all of 



us end but 
rpse-coffins 



in benig our 
at last, 

llow'd in Vastness, lost in Silence, 
drown'd in the deeps of a 
meaningless Past ? 



XVI 



What but 
gloo, 



Peace, let it be ! 



nur of gn 



,i)ger of 



©edieatsd to tBe 
Ifan. J. F^usseri fioajeir. 



THE RING. 

M AND HER FATHER. 




Miriam (siii:;iii^£^). 

Mellow moon of heaven. 

Bright in blue, 
Moon of married hearts. 

Hear me, you ! 

Twelve times in the year 

Bring me bliss, 
Globing Honey Moons 

Bright as this. 

Moon, you fade at times 

From the night. 
Young again you grow 



Iver crescent-curve. 
Coming soon, 

lobe again, and make 
Honev Moon. 



Moon, with you, 

For ten thousand years 

Old and new ? 



Father. And who was he with 
such love-drunken eyes 
They made a thousand honey moons 
of one .' 
Miriam. The prophet of his own, 
my Hubert— his 
The words, and mine the setting. 

' Air and Words,' 
Said Hubert, when I sang the song, 

' are bride 
And bridegroom.' Does it please 
you .' 
Falher. Mainly, child, 

Becau.se I hear your Mother's voice 
in yours. 

She , why, you shiver tho' the 

wind is west 
With all the warmth of summer. 

Miriam. Well, I felt 

On a sudden I know not what, a 

breath that past 
With all the cold of winter. 
Father ■ (mutlering to himself). 
Even so. 
The Ghost in Man, the Ghost that 

once was Man, 
But cannot wholly free itself from 

Man, 
Are calling to each other thro' a 

Stranger than earth has ever seen ; 

the veil 
Is rending, and the Voices of the day 
Are heard across the Voices of the 

dark. 
No sudden heaven, nor sudden hell, 

for man, 
But thro' the Will of One who knows 

and rules — 
And utter knowledge is but utter 

love — 
Ionian Evolution, swift or slow. 
Thro' all the Spheres— an ever open- 
ing height. 
An ever lessening earth — and she 

perhaps. 
My Miriam, breaks her latest earthly 

link 
With me to-day. 

Miriam. You speak 





The Ring. 



Breaking an old one ? 

Father. No, for we, my child, 

Have been till now each other's all-in- 
all. 
Miriam. And vou the lifelong 

guardian of tlie child. 
Father. I, and one other whom 

)-ou have not known. 

Miriam. And who.' what other.'' 

Father. Whither are you bound ? 

Fur Naples which we only left in May ? 

Miriam. No I father, Spain, but 

Hubert brings me home 

With April and the swallow. Wish 



ish when 
the soul 



Father. What need I 

Hubert weds in yi 
The heart of Love, and 

of Truth 
In Hubert.' 

Miriam. Tho' you used to call me 

once 
The lonely maiden-Princess of the 

wood, 
Who meant to sleep her hundred 

Before a kiss should wake her. 

Father. Ay, but now 

Vour fairy Prince has found you, take 
thik ring. 
Miriam. ' lo t'amo" — and these 
diamonds — beautiful I 
' Krom Walter,' and for me from you 
then ? 
Father. Well, 

( )ne way for Miriam. 

Miriam. Miriam am I not .' 

Father. Thi.s ring bequeath'd you 
by your mother, child. 
Was to be given you — such her dying 

wish — 
Given on the morning when vou came 

of age 
( >r on the day you married. Both the 

days 
Now close in one. The ring is doubly 

yours. 
Whv do vou look so gravelv at the 



Mir 



I ne 




As if perpetual sunset linger'd there. 
And all ablaze too in the lake below ! 
And how the birds that circle round 

the tower 
Are cheeping to each other of their 

flight 
To summer lands ! 

Father. And that has made you 



Fly- 



not. Birds and brides 
leave the nest. 
Child, I am happier in your happiness 
Than in my own. 

Miriam. It is not that! 

Father. What else ? 

Miriam. That chamber in the 

tower. 
Father. What chamber, child ? 

Vour nurse is here ? 

Miriam. My Mother's nurse and 
mine. 
She comes to dress n 



i me in my bridal 
veil. 
Father. What did she sav ? 
Miriam. She said, that you and I 
Had been abroad for my poor health 

She fear'd I had forgotten her, and I 

ask'd 
About my Mother, and she said, ' Thy 

hair 
Is golden like thy Mother's, not so 

Father. What then > what inore ? 

Miriam. She said — perhaps indeed 

She wander'd, having wander'd now 

so far 
Beyond the common date of death — 

that vou. 
When I was'smaller than the statuette 
Of my dear Mother on your bracket 

here — 
You took me to that chamber in the 

The topmost — a chest there, by which 

you knelt — 
And there were books and dresses — 

left to me, 
A ring too which vou kiss'd, and I, she 

said. 





The Ring. 



As if I saw lier; then a woman came 
And caught me from my nurse. I 

hear her yet^ 

A soinid of anger like a distant storm. 

Futlier. Garrulous old crone. 

Alinam. Poor nurse ! 

F.ilhir. 1 bad her keep, 

Like a seal'd book, all mention of the 

ring. 
For I myself would tell you all to-day. 
Miriam. ' She too might speak to- 
day,' she mumbled. Still, 
1 scarce have learnt the title of your 

Hut vou will turn the pages. 

Fallur. Ay, to-day! 

I brouEjht vou to that chamber on your 

third 
.September birthday with your nurse, 

and felt 
An icy breath play on me, while I 

stoopt 
To take and kiss the ring. 

Miriam. This very ring 

Father. Yes, for some wild hope 
was mine 
That, in the misery of my married life, 
Miriam your Mother might appear to 

She came to you, not me. The storm. 

Far-off, is Muriel — your step-mother's 
voice. 
Miriam. Vext, that you thought 



hidden from 



my Mother came I 



My Mother' 

her there. 
Like worldly beauties in the Cell, not 

To dazzle all that see them ? 

Father. Wait a while. 

Your Mother and step-mother — Mir- 
iam Erne 

And Muriel Erne — the two were cous- 
in.s — lived 

With Muriel's mother on the down, 
that sees 

A thousand squares of corn and 
meadow, far 

As the gr.iy deep, a landscape which 





Have many a time ranged over wlau 

a babe. 
Miriam. I climb'd the hill wiih 

Hubert yesterday, 
And from the thousand squares, one 

silent voice 
Came on the wind, and seem'd to say 

' Again.' 
We saw far off an old forsaken house. 
Then home, and past the ruin'd mill. 

Father. And there 

I found these cousins often by the 

brook. 
For Miriam sketch'd and Muriel threw 

the fly ; 
The girls of equal age, but one was fair. 
And one was dark, and both were 

beautiful. 
No voice for either spoke within my 

heart 
Then, for the surface eye, that only 

doats 
On outward beauty, glancing from the 

one 
To the other, knew not that which 

pleased it most. 
The raven ringlet or the gold; but 

both 
Were dowerless. and myself, I used to 

walk 
This Terrace — morbid, melancholy ; 

mine 
And yet not mine the hall, the farm, 

the field ; 
For all that ample woodland whisper'd 

' debt,' 
The brook that feeds this lakelet mur- 

mur'd ' debt,' 
And in yon arching avenue of old elms, 
Tho' mine, not mine, I heard the sober 

rook 
And carrion crow cry ' Mortgage.' 

Miriam. Father's fault 

Visited on the children ! 

Father. Ay, but then 

A kinsman, dying, summon'd me to 

Rome- 
He left me wealth— and while I jour- 



And 
And 



y'A hence, 
the world fly by 

le I c<jnimuned 





The Ring. 



I woke to all of truest in myself, 
Till, in the gleam of those mid-sum- 



The form of Muriel faded, and the 

face 
Of Miriam grew upon me, till I knew ; 
And past and future mix'd in Heaven 

and made 
The rosy twilight of a perfect day. 
Miriam. So glad ? no tear for him, 
who left you wealth, 
Your kinsman? 

Fiitker. I had seen the man but 



He 



nd th< 



Home, and thro' Venice, where a jew- 
eller. 

So far gone down, or so far up in life, 

That he was nearing his own hundred, 
sold 

This ring to me, then laugh'd ' the 



And 



ird and worn 
?as he. 



izard-Iike 



' Why weird .' ' I ask'd him ; and he 

said ' The souls 
Of two repentant Lovers guard the 

ring ;' 
Then with a ribald twinkle in his 

bleak eyes— 
* .\nd if you give the ring to any maid. 
They still remember what it cost them 

here, 
And bind the maid to love you by the 

ring ; 
And if the ring were stolen from the 

maid. 
The theft were death or madness to 

the thief, 
So sacred those Ghost Lovers hold 

the gift.' 
And then he told their legend : 

' Long ago 
Two lovers parted by a scurrilous tale 
Had quarrell'd, till the man repenting 



This ring " lo i 



10 " to his best be- 
birthdav. She in 



And sent it on ht 

wrath 
Return'd it on her birthday, and that 




His death-day, when, half-frenzied by 

the ring, 
He wildly fought a rival suitor, him 
The causer ot that scandal, fought and 

fell; 
And she that came to part them all too 

late. 
And found a corpse and silence, drew 

the ring 
From his dead finger, wore it till her 

death. 
Shrined him within the temple of her 

heart. 
Made every moment of her after life 
A virgin victim to his memory, 
And dying rose, and rear'd her arms, 

and cried 
" I see him, lo t'amo, lo t'amo." ' 
Miriam. Legend or true .' so ten- 
der should be true ! 
Did he believe it ? did you ask him .> 

Father. Ay ! 

But that half skeleton, like a barren 

ghost 
From out the fleshless world of spirits, 

laugh'd: 
A hollow laughter! 

Miriam. Vile, so near the ghost 
Himself, to laugh at love in death ! 



But 



you 



Father. Well, as the bygone lover 

thro this ring 
Had sent his cry for her forgiveness, I 
Would call thro' this 'lo t'amo' to the 

heart 
Of Miriam; then I bad the man en- 



the 



■ing, 



nd send 



Name, surname, all as clear as noon, 

hut he — 
Some younger hand must have 

engraven the ring — 
His fingers were so stiffen'd by the 

frost 
Of seven and ninety winters, that he 

scrawl'd 
A ' Miriam ' that might seem a 

'Muriel'; 
And Muriel claim'd andopcn'd what I 

For 





Before that other whom I loved and 
love. 
A mountain stay'd me here, a min- 
ster there. 
A galleried palace, or a battlefield, 
Where stood the sheaf of Peace : but — 

coming home — 
And on your Mother's birthday — all 
ya 



A week betwixt 


-and wh 


in the 


tower 




as now 








Was 


all ablaze 


with crimson 


o the 




roof, 








And 


all ablaze 
lake 


too plui 


g>"g 


n the 


Head-foremost- 


-who wer 


e those that 




stood bet 








The 


tower and 
the tower 


that rich 

? 


phan 


om of 


Mm 


el and Mir 
like 


am, each 


nwhi 


e,and 


Mav 


blossoms in 


mid aut 


umn— 


was it 



they ? 
A light shot upward on them from the 

lake. 
What sparkled there .' whose hand 

was that .' they stood 
So close together. I am not keen of 

sight. 
Hut coming nearer — Muriel had the 

ring — 
' O Miriam ! have you given your ring 

O Miriam ! ' Miriam redden'd, Muriel 

clench 'd 
The hand that wore it, till I cried 

again : 
' O Miriam, if you love me take the 

ring!' 
She glanced at me, at Muriel, and was 



' Nay, if you can 


not love me; let it be.' 


Then— Muriel s 


tanding ever 


statue- 


like- 






She turn'd, and 


in her soft 


mperial 


And saving gentl 


v: 'Muriel, 


by your 


leave,' 






Unclosed the hand, and froir 


it drew 


the ring, 






And gave it me 


who pass'd 


It down 


her own. 






' lot'amo, all is % 
r . ~ 


ell then.' Ml 


riel fled. 




Afhiam. Poor Muriel ! 
Fathc-r. Ay, poor Muriel 

when you hear 
What follows! Miriam loved me 

from the first, 
Not thro' the ring; but on her 

This birthday, death-day, and be- 
trothal ring. 

Laid on her table overnight, was gone ; 

And after hours of search and doubt 
and threats, 

And hubbub, Muriel enter'd with it, 
' See I— 

Found in a chink of that oldmoulder'd 
floor ! ' 

My Miriam nodded with a pitying 
smile. 

As who should say ' that those who 
lose can find.' 
Then I and she were married for a 

One year without a storm, or even a 

cloud ; 
And you my Miriam born within the 

And she my Miriam dead within the 

year. 
I sat beside her dying, and she 

gaspt : 
' The books, the miniature, the lace 

are hers. 



She marries ; you — you loved me, 

kept your word. 
You love me still " lo t'amo." — 

Muriel — no — 
She cannot love ; she loves her own 

hard self, 
Her firm will, her fix'd purpose. Pro- 
mise me, 
Miriam not Muriel — she shall have 

the ring.' 
And there the light of other life, which 

lives 
Beyond our burial and our buried eyes, 
Gleam'd for a moment in her own on 

earth. 
I swore the vow, then with my latest 

Upon them, closed her eyes, which 
would not close. 





Sut kept their watch upon the rhig 

and you. 
Your birthday was her death-day. 

Miriam. O poor Mother ! 

.\nd you, poor desolate Father, and 

poor me, 
The little senseless, worthless, word- 
less babe, 
Saved when your life was wreck'd ! 

Father. Desolate .' yes ! 

Desolate as that .sailor, whom the 

Had parted from his comrade in the 

boat, 
And dash'd half dead on barren sand.s, 

olace ; only — 



my ( 



Nay, you 

you 
Were always ailing. Muriel's mother 

sent. 
And sure am I, by Muriel, one day 

came 
And saw you, shook her head, and 

patted yours. 
And smiled, and making with a kindly 

pinch 
Each poor pale cheek a momentary 



' That should be fix'd,' she said ; 'your 
pretty bud. 

So blighted here, would flower into 
full health 

Among our heath and bracken. Let 
her come ! 

And we will feed her with our moun- 
tain air, 

And send her home to you rejoicing.' 
No— 

We could not part. And once, when 



Rode 



fist 



Had graspt a daisy from your Mother's 

grave- 
By the lych-gate was Muriel. ' Ay,' 

she said, 
' Among the tombs in this damp vale 

You scorn my Mother's warning, but 
the child 
paler than before. We often walk 
1 open sun, and see beneath our 





The mist of autumn gathe 

lake, 
And shroud the tower; and once wc 

only saw 
Your gilded vane, a light above the 

(Our old bright bird that still is veer- 
ing there 

Above his four gold letters) ' and the 
light,' 

She said, ' was like that light' — and 
there she paused, 

And long , till I believing that the 



Lean 


fancy, groping for i 
find 
ikeness, laugh'dalitt 

arrior's crest above 


t, could not 


One 
•A w 


e and found 
he cloud of 


war ' — 
' A fiery phcenix rising fron 
The pyre he burnt in.'— 


the smoke, 
-' Nay,' she 



said, ' the 
That glimmers on the marsh and on 

the grave.' 
And spoke no more, but turn'd and 

pass'd away. 
Miriam, I am not surely one of those 
Caught by the flower that closes on 

the fly, 
But after ten slow weeks her fix'd 

In aiming at an all but hopeless mark 
To strike it, struck; I took, I left you 

there ; 
I came, I went, was happier day by 

day; 
For Muriel nursed you with a mother's 

care; 
Till on that clear and heather-scented 

height 
The rounder cheek had brighten'd into 

bloom. 
She always came to meet me carrying 

you, 
And all her talk was of the babe she 



So, following her old pasti: 

brook. 
She threw the fly for me ; but often( 

left 
That angling to the mother. ' Muriel'; 



health 





The Ring. 



Had weaken'd, luirsiiig little Miriam. 

sed to shun the wailing babe, 

and doats ■ 
)r, tliii of yours.' But when the 

HKiiron saw 
l'h;U hinted love was only wasted bait, 
\iitii~en to, .she was bolder. 'Ever 

since 
('ou -sent the fatal ring ' — I told her 

'sent 
To Miriam,' ' Doubtless- 

since 
n all the world my dear 

you- 



, but 



babe she finds but you 
— she makes 
heart a mirror that reflects but 



And then the tear fell, the voice 

broke. Her heart ! 
I gazed into the mirror, as a man 
Who sees his face in water, and a 

That glances from the bottom of the 

pool, 
.Strike upward thro' the shadow ; yet 

at last. 
Gratitude — loneliness — desire to keep 
So skilled a nurse about you always — 

nay ! 
Some half remorseful kind of pity 

Well! well, vou know I married 

Muriel Erne. 
' I take thee Muriel for my wedded 

wife '— 
I had forgotten it was your birthday, 

child— 
When all at once with some electric 

thrill 
.A cold air pass'd between us, and the 

hands 



No 



;ach other, and were join'd 
Dnd cloudless honeymoon 




For by and by she sicken'd of the 
farce. 

She dropt the gracious mask of 
motherhood, 

She came no more tn meet me, carry- 
ing you. 



Nor ever cared to set you on her knee. 
Nor ever let you gambol in her sight. 
Nor ever chcer'd you with a kindly 




the 1 



And then had Lh.inged.' so fickle are 

men — the best ! 
Not she — but now my love was hers 

again. 
The ring by right, she said, was heis 

agani. 
-At times too shrilling in her .tngrier 

moods, 
'That weak and watery nature love 

vou .' No ! 
" lo I'a'mo, lo t'amo " ! ' flung herself 
Against my heart, but often while her 

lips 
Were warm upon mv cheek, an icy 

breath. 
As from the grating of a sepulchre. 
Past over both. I told her of my 

vow, 
No pliable idiot I to break mv vow ; 
But still sf 

ring 
For one 

her. 
Till I myself was madden'd with he 



ade her outcrv for the 
s fancv madden'd 



And 



cry, 



that ' 



those thr 



alian words, became a wearniess. 
My people too were scared w 



A footstep, a low throbbing in the 
walls, 

A noise of falling weights that never 
fell. 

Weird whispers, bells that rang with- 
out a hand. 

Door-handles turn'd when none was 
at the door. 

And bolted doors thatopen'd of them- 



.^nd one betwixt the d: 

had seen 
Wr, bending hy the cradle of her 

babe. 





The Ring. 



Miriajn. And 

that being waked 
By noises in tlie house — and, no one 

I cried for nurse, and felt a gentle 

hand 
Fall on my forehead, and a sudden 

face 
Look'd in upon me like a gleam and 

pass'd, 
And I was quieted, and slept again. 
Or is it some half memory of a 

dream ? 
Father. Your fifth September 

birthday. 
Mnuim. And the face. 

The hand, — my Mother. 

Father. ' Miriam, on that day 

Two lovers parted by no scurrilous 

tale- 
Mere want of gold — and still for 

twenty years 
Bound by the golden cord of their 

first love — 
Had ask'd us to their marriage, and to 

share 
Their marriage-banquet. Muriel, 

paler then 
Than ever you were in your cradle, 

moan'd, 
' I am fitter for my bed, or for my 

I cannot go, go you.' And then she 

She clung to me with such a hard 

embrace, 
So lingeringly long, that half-amazed 
I parted from her, and I went alone. 
And wlien the bridegroom murmur'd, 

' With this ring,' 
I felt for what I could not find, the key, 
The guardian of her relics, of //erring. 
1 ke]it it as a sacred amulet 
About me. — gone! and gone in that 



libra 



Then, hu 



ing ho 



found her not 




Or garden — up the tower — an icy air 
Fled by me. — There, the chest was 

open — all 
The sacred relics tost about the floor — 
Among them Muriel lying on her 




I raised her, call'd her ' Muriel, Muriel 

wake ! ' 
The fatal ring lay near her ; the glazed 

eye 
Glared at me as in horror. Dead I I 

took 
And chafed the freezing hand. A red 

mark ran 
All round one finger pointed straight, 

the rest 
Were crumpled inwards. Dead ! — 

and maybe stung 
With some remorse, had stolen, worn 

the ring — 
Then torn it from her finger, or as 



For never had I seen he 



show 



Miriam. — those two Ghost lov- 
ers — 
Father. Lovers yet — 

Miriam. Yes, yes ! 
Father. — but dead so long, gone 
up so far, 
That now their ever-rising life has 

dwarf'd 
Or lost the moment of their past on 

As we forget our wail at being born. 
As if— 

Miriam, a dearer ghost had — 
Father. — wrench'd it away. 

Miriam. Had floated in with sad 
reproachful eyes. 
Till from her own hand she had torn 

the ring 
In fright, and fallen dead. And I 

myself 
Am half afraid to wear it. 

Father. Well, no more! 

No bridal music this ! but fear not 

You have the ring she guarded ; that 

poor link 
With earth is broken, and has left her 

free. 
Except that, still drawn downward for 

an hour. 
Her spirit hovering by the church, 

where she 
Was married too, may linger, till she 

sees 




Her maiden coming like a Queen, 

who leaves 

colder province in the North to 

gain 

Her capital city, where the loyal bells 
Clash welcome — linger, till her own, 

the babe 
She lean'd to from her Spiritual 

sphere, 
Her lonely maiden-Princess, crown'd 

with flowers, 
Has enter'd on the larger woman- 



rid 



Ofi 



nd mothers. 



But the bridal veil— 
Your nurse is waiting. Kiss me child 
and go. 



I. 

'He is fled— I wish him dead- 
He that wrought my ruin — 
O the flattery and the craft 
Which were my undoing . . . 
In the night, in the night. 
When the storms are blowing. 



Who was witness of the crime .' 
Who shall now reveal it ? 

He is fled, or he is dead, 
Marriage will conceal it . . . 
In the night, in the night. 
While the gloom is growing.' 



Catherine, Catherine, in the night. 
What is this you're dreaming ? 

There is laughter down in Hell 
At your simple scheming . . . 
In the night, in the night. 
When the ghosts are fleeting. 



You to place a hand in his 
Like an honest woman's. 
You that lie with wasted lungs 





Waiting for your summons 
In the night, O the night! 
O the deathwatch beating ! 



There will come a witness soon 

Hard to be confuted, 
All the world will hear a voice 

Scream vou are polluted . . . 

In the night! O the night. 

When the owls are wailing I 



Shame and marriage, Shame and 
marriage. 
Fright and foul dissembling. 
Bantering bridesman, reddening 
priest, 
Tower and altar trembling . . . 
In the night, O the night. 
When the mind is failing! 



Mother, dare you kill your child ? 

How your hand is shaking ! 
Daughter of the seed of Cain, 

What is this you're taking .> . . 

In the night, O the night, 

While the house is sleeping. 



Dreadful ! has it come to this, 

O unha|)py creature .' 
You that would not tread on a worm 

For your gentle nature . . . 

In the night. O the night, 

O the night of weeping ! 

IX. 
Murder would not veil your sin, 

Marriage will not hide it. 
Earth and Hell will brand your 

Wretch you must abide it . . . 
In the night, O the night. 
Long before the dawning. 



Up, get up, and tell him all. 
Tell him you were lying ! 






i 


HI l'3 I \ 1 Ra 

448 Happy. -| 


— 1 

t 

1 


Do not die with a lie in your mouth. 


And there— the heron rises from his 




- - Vou that know vou're dying . . . 


watch beside the mere. 


1 




In the night. O the night, 


And flies above the leper's hut, 


1 




cAs While the grave is yawning. 


where lives the living-dead. <J« 






XI. 

No— you will not die before. 


II. 
Come back, nor let me know it! 






Tho' vou'l) ne'er be stronger ; 


would he live and die alone .' 






You will live till that is born, 


And has he not forgiven me yet, 






Then a little longer . . . 


his over-jealous Ijride, 






In the night, O the night, 


Who am, and was, and will be his, 






While the Fiend is prowling. 


his own and onlv own. 
To share his living death with him. 






.\ii. 


die with him side by side .' 


i 




Death and marriage, Death and 


III. 






marriage ! 








Funeral hearses rolling ! 


Is that the leper's hut on the solitary 






Black with bridal favors mixt ! 


moor, 






Bridal bells with tolling ! . . . 


Where noble Ulric dwells forlorn, 






In the night, O the night. 


and wears the leper's weed? 






When the wolves are howling. 


The door is open. He ! is he stand- 
ing at the door. 






x.u. 


My soldier of the Cross? it is he 

and he indeed ! 






Up, get up, the time is short, 








Tell him now or never ! 








Tell him all before you die. 


IV. 






Lest you die for ever . . . 


My roses— will he take them u<nL— 






In the night, () the night. 


mine, his — from off the tree 






Where there's no forgetting. 


We planted both together, happy 






.XIV. 


God, I could bfaspheme, for he 






Up she got, and wrote him all, 
.Ml her tale of sadness, 


fought Thv fight for Thee, 






And Thou hast made him leper to 






Blister'd every word with tears. 


compass him with scorn— 






.\nd eased her heart of mad- 








ness . . . 


V. 






In the night, and nigh the dawn. 
And while the moon was setting. 


Hast spared the flesh of thousands, 
the coward and the base. 
And set a crueller mark than Cain's 
on him, the good and brave ! 

He sees me, waves me from him. I 






HAPPY. 


will front him face to face. 
You need not wave me from you. 






THE leper's bride. 


I would leap into your grave. 








1 


''V 








Why wail you, jiretty plover.' and 


"■ 








what is it that you fear .' 


VI. 








Is he sick vour mate like mine? 


My warrior of the Holv Cross and of 






^; 


have von lost him, is he fled ? 

1^ 


the conquering sword. 




r 1 \ \Ly 




1 ( 




Happy. 



iide — once 



. tlie 



i>u scon, lue when 
O my lord, 
mar the beauty of 
your bride with your disease. 



Vou say your body is so foul — then 

here I stand apart, 

Who yearn to lay my loving head 

upon your leprous breast. 

The leper plague may scale my skin 

but never taint my heart; 

Vour body is not foul to me, and 

body is foul at best. 



ved 



lid fai) 



but now I love you most ; 
The fairest flesh at last is filth on 

which the worm will feast ; 
This poor rib-grated dungeon of the 

holy human ghost. 
This house with all its hateful needs 

no cleaner than the beast. 



This coarse diseaseful creature which 
in Eden was divine, 
This Satan-haunted ruin, this little 
city of sewers, 
This wall of solid flesh that comes be- 
tween your soul and mine. 
Will vanish and give place to the 
beautv that endures, 



The beauty that endures on the Spirit- 
ual height. 
When we .shall stand transfigured, 
like Christ on Hermon hill, 
.•\nd moving each to music, sou! in soul 
and light in light, 
.Shall flash thro' one another in a 
moment as we will. 



foul ! the word was \ours not 
worship that right hand 





Which fell'd the foes before you as 
the woodman fells the wood. 
And sway'd the sword that lighten'd 
back the sun of Holy land. 

And clove the Moslem crescent 
moon, and changed it into blood. 



And once I worshipt all too well this 
creature of decay, 
For Age will chink the face, and 
Death will freeze the supplest 
limbs- 
Yet you in your mid manhood — O the 
grief when yesterday 
They bore the Cross before you to 
the chant of funeral hymns. 



' Libera me, Domine ! ' you sang the 
Psalm, and when 
The Priest pronounced you dead, 
and flung the mould upon your 
feet, 
A beauty came upon your face, not 
that of living men. 
But seen upon the silent brow when 
life has ceased to beat. 



XIV. 

'Libera ;wj-, Domine' — vou knew not 
one was there 
Who saw you kneel beside your bier, 
and weeping scarce could see ; 
May I come a little nearer. I that heard, 
and changed the prayer 
And sang the married ' tios ' for the 
solitary 'me.' 



by you ! 



My beauty marred bv you .' 
so be it. All is well 
If I lose it and myself in the higher 
beauty, yours. 
My beauty lured that falcon from his 
eyry on the fell. 
Who never caught one gleam of the 
beauty which endures — 





Happy. 



The Count who sought to snap the 
bond that link'd us life to life. 
Who whisper'd me 'your Ulric 
loves' — a little nearer still — 

Me hiss"d, ' Let us revenge ourselves, 

A lie by which he thought he could 
subdue me to his will. 



I knew that you were near me when I 
let hini kiss my brow ; 
Dul he touch me on the lips ? I was 
jealous, anger'd, vain. 

Are you jealous of me now ? 
Your pardon, O my love, if I ever 
gave you pain. 

XVIII. 

You never once accused me, but I 
wept alone, and sigh'd 
In the winter of the Present for the 
summer of the Past ; 
That icy winter silence — how it froze 
you from your bride, 
Tho' I made one barren effort to 
break it at the last. 



I brought vou, vou remember, these 

roses, when I knew 

You were parting for the war, and 

you took them tho' you frown 'd ; 

You frown'd and yet you kiss'd them. 

All at once the trumpet blew, 

And vou spurr'd your fiery horse, 

and you hurl'd them to the 



You parted for the Holy \Var without 
a word to me. 
And clear myself unask'd — not I. 

And him I saw but once again, and far 
away was he. 
When I was praying in a storm — the 
crash was lone and loud — 





That God would ever slant His bolt 
from falling on your head — 
Then I lifted up my eyes, he was 
coming down the fell — 
I clapt my hands. The sudden fire 
from Heaven had dash'd liim 
dead, 
And sent him charr'd and blasted 
to the deathless fire of Hell. 

XXII. 
See, I sinn'd but for a moment. I re- 
pented and repent, 
.\\v.\ trust myself forgiven by the 
God to whom I kneel. 
A little nearer.' Yes. I shall hardly 
be content 
Till I be leper like yourself, my love, 
from head to heel. 

XXIII. 

O foolish dreams, that you, that I, 
would slight our marriage oath : 
I held you at that moment even 
dearer than before ; 
Now God has made you leper in His 
loving care for both, 
<i:^hat we might cling together, never 
doubt each other more. 



The Priest, who join'd you to the dead, 
has join'd our hands of old; 
If man and wife be but one flesh, let 
mine be leprous too, 
As dead from all the human race as if 
beneath the mould; 
If you be dead, then I am dead, who 
only live for you. 



,Vould Karth tho' hid in cloud not be 
follow'd by the Moon .' 
The leech forsake the dying bed for 
tei ror of his life ? 
rhe shadow leave the Substance in the 
brooding light of noon ? 
Or if / had been the leper would 
vou have left the wife ? 





To Ulysses. 



XXVI. 

:ot take them ? Still you wave uie off 

— poor roses — must I go — 

I have worn them year by year — 

from the bush we both had set — 

S liat ? fling them to you ?— well— that 

were hardly gracious. No ! 

Your plague but passes by the touch. 

A little nearer yet ! 

XVH. 

"here, there! he buried you, the 

Priest; the Priest is not to 

blame, 
He joins us once again, to his either 

office true : 
thank him. I am happy, happy. 

Kiss me. In the name 
Of the everlasting God, I will live 

and die with vou. 



las remarked thai the pro- 
; afforded by ihe Church to 
this blighted race of lepers was among the 
most beautiful of its offices during the Mid- 
dle Ages. The leprosy of the thirteenth 



[Dean Mil 



be a legacy of the crusades, but was in all 
probability the offspring of meagre and 
unwholesome diet, miserable lodging and 
clothing, physical and moral degradation. 
The services of the Church in the seclusion 
of these unhappy sufferers were most affec- 
ting. The stern duty of looking to the 
public welfare is tempered with exquisite 
compassion for the victims of this loathsome 
disease. The ritual for the sequestration 
of the leprous differed little from the burial 
service. After the leper had been sprinkled 
with holy water, the priest conducted him 
into the church, the leper singing the psalm 
' Libera me domine.' and the crucifix and 
bearer going before. In the church a black 
cloth was stretched over two trestles in 
front of the altar, and the leper leaning at 
its side devoutly heard mass. The priest, 
taking up a little earth in his cloak, threw 
it on one of the leper's feet, and put him 

ily 

fields, and then uttered the prohi 
' I forbid vou entering the chu! 





. ... or entering the company of others. 
I forbid you quitting your home without 
your leper's dress.' He concluded: ' Take 
this dress, and wear it in token of humility: 
take these gloves, take this clapper, as a 
sign that you are forbidden to speak to any 
one. You are not to be indignant at being 
thus separated from others, and as to your 
little wants, good people will provide for 
you, and God will not desert you.' Then 
in this old ritual follow these sad words: 
* When it shall come to pass that the leper 
shall pass out of this world, he shall be 
buried in his hut, and not in the church- 
yard.' At first there was a doubt whether 
wives should follow their husbands who had 
been leprous, or remain in the world and 
marry again. The church decided that the 
marnage-tie was indissoluble, and so be- 
stowed on these unhappy beings this im- 
mense source of consolation. With a love 
stronger than this living death, lepers were 
followed into banishment from the haunts 
of men by their faithful wives. Readers 
of Sir J. Stephen's Essays on Ecclesiastical 
Biography will recollect the description of 
the founder of the Franciscan order, how, 
controlling his involuntary disgust. St. 
Francis of Assisi washed the feet and 
dressed the sores of the lepers, once at 
least reverently applying his lips to their 



-Bou( 



Thii 



any of quasi~h\xr\2\ varied con- 
siderably at different times and in different 
places. In some cases a grave was dug. 
and the leper's face was often covered 



TO ULYSSES. 



Ulysses, much-experienced ma 
Whose eyes have known this 

globe of ours, 
Her tribes of men, and 
flowers, 
From Corrientes to Japan 

' • Ulysses.' the title of a n 
says by W. G. Palgrave. 
Video before seeing my poem, 




To Mary Boyle. 



'I'o you that bask below the Line, 
yy I soaking here in winter wet— 

The century's three strong eight 

To drag me down to seventy-nine 



In summer if I reach my da) — 
To you, yet young, who breathe tl>e 

balm 
Of summer-winters by the jjalm 

And orange grove of Paraguay, 



I tolerant of the colder time. 

Who love the winter woods, to trace 
On paler heavens the branching 
grace 

Of leafless elm, or naked lime. 



And see my cedar green, and there 
My giant ilex keepnig leaf 
When frost is keen and days are 



el how in English air 



My yucca, w^hich no winter quells, 
Aitho' the months have scarce 

Has push'd toward our faintest sun 
A spike of half-accomplish'd bells— 



Or watch the waving pme which her 
The warrior of Caprera set, ' 
A name that earth will not forget 

Till earth has roU'd her latest year- 



I, once half-crazed for larger light 
On broader zones beyond the foam, 
But chaining fancy now at home 

Among the quarried downs of WMght, 





Not less would yield full thanks to you 
For your rich gift, your tale of lands 

Vour cane, your palm, Uee-fern, bani- 



The wealth of tropic bower and brake ; 
Your Oriental Eden-isles, - 
Where man, nor only Nature smiles; 

Your wonder of the lioiling lake ; '* 



Phra-Chai, the Shadow of the Best,'' 
Phra-bat " the step ; your Pont 



Crag-cloister ; " i 
Hong-Kong, * Kar 



Thro' which I foUovv'd line by line 
Your leading hand, and came, my 

friend, 
To prize your various book, and 
send 
A gift of slenderer value, mine. 



TO MARY KOYLE. 
With the following Poem. 



' .Spring-flowers ' ! While you : 
delay to take 

Your leave of Town, 



Neid. 



Philippin 



1 The tale t 

s In Dominica. 

^ The shadow of the Lord. Certain 
bscure markings on a rock in Siam, which 
xpress the image of Buddha to the Bud- 
hist more or less distinctly according to his 

^ The footstep of 





Be truer to 
heard 

Our cuckoo 
Be needle to tlie mat 



Our vernal bloom from every val 
plain 

And garden pass, 
And all the gold from each labu 



Is memory with you 



iMari; 



I gone I 



Dead with the dead ? 
For ere she left us, when we met, you 
prest 

My hand, and said 



My birds would sing, 
Vou heard not. Take then this spring- 
flower I send. 

This song of spring. 



Found yesterday — forgotten mine own 
rhyme 

By mine old self. 

As I shall be forgotten by old Time, 

Laid on the shelf — 



VII. 

A rhyme that flower'd betwixt the 
whitening sloe 

And kingcup blaze, 
And more than half a hundred years 
ago. 

In rick-fire days, 




For lowly minds were madden'd to 
the height 

By tonguester tricks. 
And once — I well remember that red 
night 

When thirty ricks. 



All flaming, made an English home- 
stead Hell— 

These hands of mine 
Have helpt to pass a bucket from the 



ell 

Along the 1 



When this bare dome had not begun 
to gleam 

Thro' youthful curls. 
And you were then a lover's fairy 
dream. 

His girl of girls; 



And yuu, that now are lonely, and with 
Grief 

Sit face to face. 
Might find a flickering glimmer of 
relief 

In change of place. 



What use to brood.' this life of 
mingled pains 
And joys to me. 
Despite of every Faith and Creed, 
remains 

The Mystery. 




The Progress of Spring. 



XIV. 



Let golden youth bewail 
the wife, 

For ever gone. 
He dreams of that long 
desert life 

Without the one. 



friend, 
Ik thro' 



The silver year should cease to mourn 
and sigh — 

Not long to wait — 
So close are we, dear Mary, you and I 

To that dim gate. 



Take, read I and be the faults your 
Poet makes 

Or many or few, 
He rests content, if his young music 
wakes 

A wish in you 



To change our dark Queen-city, all 
her realm 

Of sound and smoke. 
For his clear heaven, and these few 
lanes of elm 

And whispering oak. 



THE PROGRESS OF SPRING. 



THEgroundflame of the crocus breaks 
the mould, 
Fair Spring slides hither o'er the 
Southern sea. 
Wavers on her thin stem the snow- 
drop cold 
That trembles not to kisses of the 
bee: 
Come, Spring, for now from all the 
dripping eaves 
The spear of ice has wept itself 
away. 
And hour by hour unfolding woodbine 
leaves 





O'er his uncertain shadow droops 
the day. 
She comes! The loosen'd rivulets 

The frost-bead melts upon her 

golden hair ; 
Her mantle, slowly greening in the 

Sun, 
Now wraps her close, now arching 

leaves her bare 
To breaths of balmier air ; 



gone wild to wel- 
shriek 



Up leaps the la 
come her. 
About her glance the 
the jays. 
Before her skims the jubilant wood- 
pecker. 
The linnet's bosom blushes at her 
gaze, 
While round her brows a woodland 
culver flits. 
Watching her large light eyes and 
gracious lunk^. 
And in her open palm a halcyon sits 
Patient— the secret splendor of the 
brooks. 
Come, Spring ! She comes on waste 
and wood. 
On farm and field : but enter also 
here. 
Diffuse thyself at will thro' all my 
blood. 
And, tho' thy violet sicken into sere. 
Lodge with me all the year I 



Once more a downy drift agamst the 
brakes, 
Self-darken'd in the sky, descending 

But gladly see I thro' the wavering 
flakes 
Yon blanching apricot like snow in 



These will thine eyes not brook 

forest-paths. 
On their perpetual pine, nor 

the beech ; 
They fuse themselves to little 

baths. 





The Progress of Spring. 



ed ill the tender blushes of the 
peach ; 

They lose themselves and die 

On that new life that gems the haw- 
thorn line ; 

Thy gay lent-lilies wave and put them 

by, 

And out once more in varnish'd 

glory shine 
Thy stars of celandine. 




Broaden the glowing isles of vernal 
blue. 
lail ample presence of a Queen, 
Bountiful, beautiful, apparell'd gay, 
Vhose mantle, every shade of glancing 
green, 
Flies back in fragrant breezes to 

display 
K tunic white as May ! 



She floats across the hamlet. Heaven 

lours. 
But in the tearful splendor of her 

smiles 
I see the slowly-thickening chestnut 

Fill out the spaces by the barren 
tiles. 
Now past her feet the swallow cir- 
cling flies, 
A clamorous cuckoo stoops to meet 
her hand; 
Her light makes rainbows in my 
closing eyes, 
I hear a charm of song thro' all the 
land. 
Come, Spring I She comes, and 
Earth is glad 
To roll her North below thy deepen- 
ing dome, 
But ere thv maiden birk be wholly 
clad,' 
And these low bushes dip their 

twigs in foam. 
Make all true hearths thy home. 



Across my garden ! and the thicket 

The fountain pulses high in sunnier 
jets, 
The blackcap warbles, and the turtle 

The starling claps his tiny castanets. 
Still round her forehead wheels the 
woodland dove. 
And scatters on her throat the 
sparks of dew, 
The kingcup fills her footprint, and 
above 




She whispers, ' From the South I 
bring you balm, 
For on a tropic mountain was I 
born, 
While some dark dweller by the coco- 
palm 
Watch'd my far meadow zoned 
with airy morn ; 
From under rose a muffled moan of 
floods ; 
I sat beneath a soltitude of snow ; 
There no one came, the turf was 
fresh, the woods 
Plunged gulf on gulf thro' all their 
vales below. 
I saw beyond their silent tops 

The steaming marshes of the scar- 
let cranes, 
The slant seas leaning on the man- 
grove copse, 
And summer basking in the sultry 

plains 
About a land of canes ; 



' Then from my vapor girdle soaring 
forth 

buoyant highway of 



the Iiirds 

And drank the dews and drizzle of 
the North, 
That I might mi.x with men, and 
hear their words 
On pathway'd plains; for— while my 
hand e.xults 
Within the bloodless heart of lowly 
flowers 
To work old laws of Love to fresh 
residts, 
Thro' manifold effect of simple 
powers — 





too would teach th- 

Beyond the darker hour to see the 

bright, 
fhat his fresh life may close as it 

began. 
The still-fulfilling promise of a 

light 
Narrowing the bounds of night.' 



So wed thee with my soul, that I may 
mark 
The coming year's great good and 
varied ills, 
And new developments, whatever 
spark 
He struck from out the clash of 
warring wills ; 
(_)r whether, since our nature cannot 

The smoke of war's volcano burst 

again 
From hoary deeps that belt the 

changeful West, 
Old Kmpires, dwellings of the kings 

of men ; 
( )r should those fail, that hold the 

helm. 
While the long day of knowledge 

grows and warms. 
And in the heart of this most ancient 

real m 
A hateful voice be utter'd, md 

alarms 
Sounding ' To arms ! to arms ! ' 



A simpler, saner lesson might he 
learn 
Who reads thy gradual process. 
Holy Spring. 
Thy leaves possess the season in 
their turn. 
And in their time thy warblers rise 




Thy warmths from bud to bud 

Accomplish that blind model in the 
seed, 
And men have hopes, which race the 
restless blood. 
That after many changes may suc- 
ceed 
Life, which is Life indeed. 



MERLLM AND THE GLEAM. 



O YOUNG Mariner, 
You from the haven 
Under the sea-cliff, 
You that are watching 
The grav Magician 
With eves of wonder, 



/ar 



Mt 



And / : 



WMio follow 



Mighty the Wizard 
Who found me at sunrise 
Sleejiing, and woke me 
And learn'd me Magic! 
Great the Master, 
And sweet the ^Ta£ric, 
When over the valley, 

Over the mounlaiii. 
On human faces, 
And all around me. 
Moving to melodv, 
Floated The Gleam. 



the croak of a Raven 



A barbarou 






Blind to the manic. 




And deaf t, 


the me 


ori 


SnarI'd at a 




1 


A demon ve 


\t me, 




The lit;hl rt 


tre.ited, 




The landsk 


p darke 


'f 


The melod) 


deaden 


d, 


The Mastei 


whisper 


'd 


' Follow Th 


e Gleam 


' 





Merlin and the Gka 




IV. 

Then to the melody, 
Over a wilderness 
Gliding, and glancing at 
Elf of the woodland, 
Gnome of the cavern. 
Griffin and Giant, 
And dancing of Fairies 
In desolate hollows, 
And wraillis ol the nionn 
And roUins of dragons 
By warble of water, 
Or cataract music 
Of falling torrents. 
Flitted The Gleam. 



Down trom 

And over the level. 

And streaming and shining on 

Silent river, 

Silvery willow. 

Pasture and plowland. 

Innocent maidens, 

Garrulous children, 

Homestead and harvest. 

Reaper and gleaner. 

And rough-ruddy faces 

Of lowly labor, 

.Slided The Gleam — 



Then, with a melody 
Stronger and statelier. 
Led me at length 
To the citv and palace 
Of Arthur the king; 
Touch'd at the golden 
Cross of the churches 
Flash'd on the Tournament, 
Flicker'd an.l bicker'd 
From helmet to helmet. 
And last on the forehead 
Of Arthur the blameless 
Rested The Gleam. 



Clouds and darkiiL-s^ 

I ui>on Camelo 

Arthur had vanish'd 

I knew not whither, 




The king who loved me. 

For out of the darkness 

Silent and slowly 

The Gleam, that had waned I 

a wintry glimmer 
On icy fallow 
And faded forest. 
Drew to the valley 
Named of the shadow. 
And slowly brightening 
Out of the glimmer. 
And slowlv moving again to 

melody 
Yearningly tender. 
Fell on the shadow. 
No longer a shadow, 
But clothed with The Gleam. 



VIII. 

And broader and brighter 

The Gleam flying onward. 

Wed to the melody, 

Sang thro' the world ; 

And slower and fainter. 

Old and weary. 

But eager to follow, 

I saw, whenever 

In passing it glanced upon 

Hamlet or city. 

That under the Crosses 

The dead man's garden. 

The mortal hillock. 

Would break into blo.ssom ; 

And so to the land's 

Last limit I came 

And can no longer, 

But die rejoicing. 

For thro' the Magic 

Of Ilim the Mightv, 

Who taught me" in childhood. 

There on'the border 

Of boundless Ocean, 

And all but in Heaven 

Hovers The Gleam. 



Not of the sunlight. 
Not of the moonlight. 
Not of the starlight ! 
' O'5'O-jng Mariner, 
Down to the haven. 





Call your compaiiioiis. 
Launch your vessel, 
And crowd your canvas 



REMORSE. 

Life of Romney the 



is the close of his 
neteen, and because 
lad said that " mar- 



the North and 



nearly mad and quite desolate, he went 
baclc to her and she received him and 
nursed him till he died. Tliis quiet act of 
hers is worth all Roraney's pictures ! even 
as a matter of Art, I ara sure.' {Letters 
and Literary Ketnains o/ Kdivard Fitz- 

'Beat, little heart — I give you this 

and this ' 
Who are you? What! the Lady 

Hamilton? 
Good, I am never weary painting you. 
To sit once more ? Cassandra, Hebe, 

Or spinning at }'our wheel beside the 

and if I 



To conjure and concentrate into form 
KwA color all you are, the fault is less 
In me than Art. What Artist ever 

Could make pure light live on the 

canvas? Art! 
Why should I so disrelish that short 

word ? 
Where am I ? snow on all the hills ! 



Bacchante, what you 





To roll himself in meadow grass 



To wallow in that winter of the 1 
Nurse, were you hired? or came ol 

your own will 
To wait on one so broken, so forlorn ? 
Have I not met you somewhere long 

ago? 
I am all but sure I have — in Kendal 

church — 

yes ! I l»ired you for a season there. 
And then we parted ; but you look so 

kind 
That you will not deny my sultry 

throat 
One draught of icy water. There — 

you spill 
The drops tipon my forehead. Your 

hand shakes. 

1 am ashamed. I am a trouble to 

Could kneel for your forgiveness. 

Are they tears ? 
For me — they do me too much grace 

— for me ? 
O Mary, Mary! 

Vexing you with words! 
Words only, born of fever, or the 

fumes 
Of that dark opiate dose you gave me. 

Wild babble. 'l have stumbled back 

again 
Into the common day, the sounder 

self. 
God stay me there, if only for your 

sake, 
The truest, kindliest, noblest-hearted 

wife 
That ever wore a Christian marriage- 

My curse upon the Master's apo- 
thegm. 

That wife and children drag an Artist 
down ! 

This seem'd my lodestar in the 
Heaven of Art, 

And lured me from the household fire 
on earth. 

To you my days have been a life-long 



lie, 
CIrafted on half 



ruth ; 



ind tho' you 





Romnefs Rejnorse. 



' Take comfort you have v 

r's fame,' 
The best in me that sees the ' 



ids no comfort 
not Raphael, 



And groans to see 

there. 

What fame? 1 

Nor even a Sir Joshua, some will cry. 
Wrong there ! The painter's fame .'' 

but mine, that grew 
Blown into glittering by the popular 

breath. 
May float awhile beneath the sun, may 

roll 
The rainbow hues of heaven about 

it — 

There ! 
The color'd bubble bursts above the 

abyss 
< )f Darkness, utter Lethe. 



Her sad eyes plead for my own fame 



aa eyi 



Look, the sun has risen 
To flame along another dreary day. 
Your hand. How bright you keep 



Ha 



then 



Bred this black mood.? or am I 

conscious, more 
Than other Masters, of the chasm 

between 
Work and Ideal .' Or does the gloom 

of Age 
Ami suffering cloud the height I 

stand upon 
Even from myself ? stand? stood . . . 

no more. 

And yet 
The world would lose, if such a wife 

as you 

anish unrecorded. Miglit t 

One favor? I am bankrupt of all 

On your obedience, and my strongest 





Falls flat before your least unwilling- 
ness. 
Still would you — if it please you — sit 

I dream'd last night of that clear 

summer noon. 
When seated on a rock, and foot to 

foot 
With your own shadow in the placid 

lake. 
You claspt our infant daughter, heart 

to heart. 
I had been among the hills, and 

brought you down 
A length of staghorn-moss, and this 

you twined 
About her cap. I see the picture yet, 
Mother and child. A sound from far 

away, 
No louder than a bee among the 

flowers, 
A fall of water luU'd the noon asleep. 
Youstill'd it for the moment with a 

song 
Which often echo'd in me, while I 

stood 
Before the great Madonna-master- 
pieces 
Of ancient Art in Paris, or in Rome. 
Mary, my crayons ! if I can, I will. 
You should have been— I might have 

made you once, 
Had I but known you as I know you 

now — 
The true Alcestis of the time. Your 

song — 
Sit, listen ! I remember it, a proof 
That I — even I — at times remember'd 



' Beat upon mine, little heart ! beat, 

beat! 
Beat upon mine! you are mine, my 

sweet ! 
All mine from your pretty blue 

eyes to your feet. 

My sweet.' 

ess profile ! turn to me — three-quar- 





RomHefs Remorse. 



For I give you this, and I give you 

And 1 blind your pretty blue eyes 
witli a kiss ! 

Sleep ! ' 

Too earlv blinded by the kiss of 
death— 

' Father and Mother will watch you 



' Father and Mother will watch vou 

grow, 
And gather the roses whenever 

they blow, 
And find the white heather wher- 




eaven, 
if //,■ 
fe and children ? for 



you go 



My SM 
nly bio 



With Milton's amaranth. I here, 
there, there ! a child 

Had shamed me at it — Down, you idle 
tools, 

Stampt into dust — tremulous, all 
awry, 

Blurr'd like a landskip in a rufHed 
pool, — 

Not one stroke firm. This Art, that 
harlot-like 

•Seduced me from you, leaves me har- 
lot-like, 

Who love her still, and whimper, im- 
potent 

To win her back before I die— and 

then- 
Then, in the loud world's bastard 
judgment-dav, 

One truth will damn me with the 
mindless mob. 

Who feel no touch of my temptation. 



lore 

1 the I 




riad lies, that blacken 
it gains a 



The corpse of every man that 

name ; 
•This model husband, thi 

Artist ' ! Fool, 



Will dull their comn 

when the shout 
Of His descending peals U 

and throbs 
Thro' earth, and all her g 

should ask 
' Why left you 

my sake. 
According to my word.'' and I 

replied 
' Nay, Lord, for Aii; why, that would 

sound so mean 
That all the dead, who wait the doom 

of Hell 
For bolder sins than mine, adulteries, 
{ Wife-murders, — nay, the ruthless 

Mus.sulman 
I Who flings his bowstrung Harem in 
' the sea. 

Would turn, and glare at me, and 

point and jeer. 
And gibber at the worm, who, living, 

made 
The wife of wives a widow-bride, and 

lost 
Salvation for a sketch. 

I am wild again ! 
The coals of fire you heap upon my 

head 
Have crazed me. Someone knock- 
ing there without ? 
No! Will mv Indian brother come.' 

to find ■ 
Me or my cotifin ? Should I know the 



This worn-out Reason dying in her 

house 
May leave the windows blinded, and 

r,id him farewell for me, and tell 

him— 

Hope ! 
I hear a death-bed .\ngel whisper 

' Hope.' 
" The miserable have no medicine 
But only Hope!" He said it . . . 

in the play. 
His crime was of the 



ind 



Mil 



cold, ca 





Parnassus — By an Evolutionist. 



ches heav 



let me lean my head upon your 
breast. 

• Beat little heart ' on this fool brain 
of mine. 

1 once had friends — and many — none 

like you. 
I love you more than when we mar- 
ried. Mope ! 
(J yes, I hope, or fancy that, jier- 

haps, 
Human forgiveness 
and thence— 
For vou forgive me, you are sure of 

' that- 
Reflected, sends a light on the for- 



'ARNAS.SUS. 



What be those crown'd forms high 
over the sacred fountain .' 

Hards, that the mighty Muses have 
raised to the heights of the 



-\nd over the flight of the Ages ! O 

Goddesses,help me up thither ! 
Lightning may shrivel the laurel of 

Caesar, but mine would not 

wither. 
Steep is the mountain, but you, you 

will help me to overcome it. 
And stand with my head in the 

zenith, and roll my voice from 

Sounding for ever and ever thro' 
Earth and her listening na- 



.And mixt with the great Sphere- 
music of stars and of constella- 
tions. 





What be those two shapes high over 
the sacred fountain. 

Taller than all the Muses, and huger 
than all the mountain.' 

On those two known peaks they stand 
ever spreading and heighten- 
ing; 

Poet, that evergreen laurel is blasted 
by more than lightning! 

Look, in their deep double shadow 
the crown'd ones all disappear- 
ing ! 

Sing like a bird and be happy, nor 
hope for a deathless hearing! 

■ Sounding for ever and ever .' ' pass 
on ! the sight confuses — 

These are Astronomy and Cleology, 
terrible Muses! 



If the lips were touch'd with fire from 

off a pure Pierian altar, 
Tho' their music here be mortal need 

the singer greatly care .' 
Other songs for other worlds ! the fire 

within him would not falter ; 
Let the golden Iliad vanish. Homer 

here is Homer there. 



BY AN EVOLUTIONIST. 

The Lord let the house of a brute to 
the soul of a man. 
And the man said ' Am I your 
debtor .' ' 
And the Lord—' Not yet : but make 
it as clean as vou can, 
And then I will let you a better." 



If my body 



from brutes, my 
, or a fable, 
amid the senses 
un of morning 



Why not bask 

while the 

shines, 
the finer brute 

hounds, and in my stable 
Youth and Health, and birth and 

wealth, and choice of women 

and of wines .' 





Far-Far- Away — Beautiful City. 



What hast thou done for me, grim 

<)ld Age, save breaking my 

bones on the rack ? 

Would I had past in the morning 

that looks so bright from afar ! 



Old Age. 

)one for thee ? starved the wild 
beast that was linkt with thee 
eighty years back. 
Less weight now for. the ladder-of- 
heaven that hangs on a star. 



No, but if the rebel subject seek to 
drag me from the throne. 
Hold the sceptre, Human Soul, and 
rule thy Province of the brute. 



I have climb'd to the snows of Age, 

and I gaze at a field in the 

Past, 
Where I sank with the body at 

times in the sloughs of a low 

desire, , 
But I hear no yelp of the beast, and 

the Man is quiet at last 
As he stands on the heights of his 

life with a glimpse of a height 

that is higher. 

FAR— FAR— AWAY. 

(for music.) 

What sight so lured him thro' the 

fields he knew 
As where earth's green stole into 



Far — far — away r 
What sound was dearest in his 




What vague world-whispei 
or joy. 




Thro' those thr 



words would haunt 
a boy. 
Far— far — away .' 



dawn of life.' a 
wn beyond the 



A whisper fi 

breath 
From some fair dawn 

doors of death 

Far— fa 



Far, far, how far ? from o'er the gates 

of Birth, 
The faint horizons, all the bounds of 

earth. 



What charm in words, a charm no 

words could give .' 
O dying words, can Music make you 

live 

Far — far — away .' 



POLITICS. 

We move, the wheel must always 
move. 
Nor always on the plain, 
And if we move to such a goal 

As Wisdom hopes to gain. 
Then you that drive, and know your 
Craft, 
Will firmly hold the rein. 
Nor lend an ear to random cries'. 

Or you may drive in \ain, 
For some cry ' Quick ' : nd some cry 
• Slow,'' 
But, while the hills remain, 
Up hill -Too-slow' will need the 
whip, 
Down hill ' Too-quick,' the chain. 



BEAUTIFUL CITY 



deautikui. city, the centre and 
of European confusion. 





The Roses on the Terrace— The Throstle 



O you with your passionate shviek for 
the rights of an equal human- 
ity, 

How often your Re-volution has 
proven but E-volution 

RoU'd again back on itself in the tides 
of a civic insanity ! 



THE ROSES ON THE 
. TERRACE. 

Rose, on this terrace fifty years ago, 
When I was in my June, you in 
your May, 
Two words, ' ^fy Rose ' set all your 
face aglow. 
And now that I am white, and you 
are gray, 
That blush of fifty years ago, my 
dear. 
Blooms in the Past, but close to me 
to-day 
As this red rose, which on our terrace 
here 
Glows in the blue of fifty miles 
away. 



THE PLAY. 



Act 



this Earth, a stage so 
gloom'd with woe 
You all but sicken at the shifting 
scenes. 
And yet be patient. Our Playwright 
may show 
In some fifth Act what this wild 
Drama means. 



OK ONE WHO AFFECTED AN 
EFFEMINATE MANNER. 



While man and woman still are 
complete. 



woman meet, 
Which types all Nature's male 

female plan. 
But, friend, man-woman is not wo 





TO ONE WHO RAN DOWN 
THE ENGLISH. 

You make our faults too gross, and 

thence maintain 
Our darker future. May your fears 

be vain ! 
At times the small black fly upon the 

pane 
May seem the black ox of the distant 

plain. 



THE SNOWDROP. 

Many, many welcomes 
February fair-maid. 
Ever as of old time, 
Solitary firstling. 
Coming in the cold time. 
Prophet of the gay time. 
Prophet of the May thne. 
Prophet of the roses. 
Many, manv welcomes 
February fair-maid ! 



THE THROSTLE. 

' Summer is coming, summer is com- 
ing. 
I know it, I know it, I know it. 
Light again, leaf again, life again, love 
again,' 
Yes, my wild little Poet. 

Sing the new year in under the blue. 
Last year you sang it as gladly. 
' New, new, new, new ' ! Is it then so 

That you should carol so madly t 

' Love again, song again, nest again, 
young again,' 
Never a prophet so crazy ! 
And hardly a daisy as yet, little 
friend. 
See, there is hardly a 'daisy. 

' Here again, here, here, here, happy 
year ! ' 





O warble uiichidden, unbidden ! 
Summer is coming, is coming, my 
dear, 
And all tiie winters are hidden. 



THE OAK. 



Live thy Life, 

Young and old, 
Like yon oalt. 
Bright in spring, 
Living gold; 

Summer-rich 

Then ; and then 
Autumn-changed, 
.Soberer-hued 

Gold again. 

All his leaves 

Fall'n at length, 
lx)ok, he stands. 
Trunk and bough. 
Naked strength. 



IN MEMORIAM. 

W. G. Ward. 

Farewell, whose like on earth : 
shall not find. 
Whose Faith and Work were bell 
of full accord, 




My friend, the most unworldly of 
mankind, 
Most generous of all Ul 
tanes. Ward, 
How subtle at tierce and quart of 
mind with mind, 
How loval in the following of thv 
Lord ! 



CROSSING THE BAR. 

Sunset and evening star. 
And one clear call for me ! 

And mav there be no moaning of the 
bar. 
When I put out to sea. 

But such a tide as moving seems 
asleep. 
Too full for sound and foam. 
When that which drew from out the 
boundless deep 
Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell, 

.-Vnd after that the dark! 
And may there be no sadness of fare- 
well, 

When I embark ; 

For tho' from out our bourne of Time 
and Place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

When I have crost the bar. 







INDEX TO FIRST LINES OF 
VOLUME I. 



Act first, this Earth, a stage so gloom d 

with woe. 461. 
Ah God ! the petty fools of rhyme, 109. 
Airy, fairy Lilian, 6. 
All along the valley, stream that flashest 

And Willy, ray eldest-born, is gone, you 

A plague upon the people fell, 109. 

Are you sleeping ? have you forgotten ? do 

not sleep, my sister dear ! 402. 
A spirit haunts the year's last hours, 13. 
A storm was coming, but the winds were 



Below the thunders o 
Brooks, for they call* 

you best, 382. 
Bury the Great Duke 



Clear-headed friend, whose jovful scorn. 8. 
Clearly the blue river chimes 'in its flow- 
ing. 3. 
Come, when no graver_cares employ, 105. 




the fool, whom Gaw 



legs, as they 



hanging bird that flies. 



re slow to fade away. 



.-..,.. „^.. ..^. c shall not 

find, 464. 
Fifty times the rose has flower'd and faded. 

First pledge our Queen this solemn night. 

Flowe^r in the crannied wall, 112. ■ 
From noiseful arms, and acts of prowess 



Glorv of warrior, glory of oi 

song, no. 
Golden-hair'd Ally whose 

with mine. 381. 



Half a league, half a league, 93. 
' He is fled— I wish him dead—. 4 
Helen's Tower, here I stand. 424. 
Her, that^er Honor was spakin' ti 






the topmost cliff, 



Here, it is here, the close of the year, log. 
He rose at dawn and, fired with hope, 107. 
He thought to quell the stubborn hearts of 

Hide me, Mother '. my Fathers belong'd to 

the church of old. 300. 
How long. O God. shall men be ridden 



it you. that preach'd in the chapel there 

looking over the sand ? 394. 
vish I were as in the years of old, 387. 





Late, my grr^ndson ! half the morning 
have I paced these sandy tracts, 410. 

Leodogran. the King of Cameliard, 164. 

Life and Thought l^ave gone away, 16. 

Live thy Life, 464. [ { 

Low-flowing breezes are roaming the 
broad valley dimm'd ir " " 



Many a hearth upon our dark globe sighs 

after many a vanish'd face, 437. 
Many, many welcomes, 463. 



Milk for my sweet-arts. Bess! fur 

be the time about now, 407. 
Mine be the strength of spirit, ] 

Minnie and" Winnie, 108. 

My hope and heart is with thee— i 

be, 26. 
My Lords, we heard you speak: > 



Roii, Roa, Rod, ^1.4. 
Nightingale^, warbled without, 106. 
Not here ! the white North has thy bones; 



Old Fitz. wh 
Old poets fo: 






^^f^Ji 



O purblind race of miserable men, 215. 
O sweet pale Margaret, 22. 
O thnu so fair in summers gone. 426. 
Our liirches yellowing and from each, 
O well for him whose will is stronj^ ! ic 

of indolent reviewers, ii- 

iner, 45A. 

eyes and light to 




beloved — O you that hold, i. 
ir^il. thou that singest, 420. 
this terr^e t^ty years ago, 463 
ut from Degentano, to your S 



Sir Wait. 
So Hect 






■ong Son of God. 
ummer is corair 
463. 



The brave Geraint, a knighl 

The charge of the gallant th 

the Heavy Brigaitc ! 418. 

The form, the form alone is el 

The groundfiame of the croci 






mould, 454. 



The last tall son of Lot and Bell 
The lights and shadows flv ! 116. 
The Lord let the house of a br 

soul of a man, 461. 
The plain was grassy 
The poet in a golden 



d bn 



Ths 



: Ho 



the ■ 



These to His Memory — since he Jield them 

dear, 163. 
The Son of him with whom we slrnve for 

The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the 



lillsand t 



iiids. 



^i the Peak, 11 1. 

at their hour of birth. 6. 
where their sovran eagle 



Those that of late had fleeted far and fast. 



Thou who stealest fire, 12 
Thy dark eyesnpen'd not 
Thy prayer was ' Ligli 
while Time shall last 
Thy tuwhits are lull'd, I wot. 
Two children in two neighb< 
Two Suns of Love mat 





Warrior of God, whose strong right ar 

debased, 27. 
Welcome, welcome, with one voice ! 428. 
We move, the wheel must always mo\ 



What sight so lured 1 



1 forms high over the 
mthro' the fields he 
moon was gathering 
long and mea liggin' 



Who would be, 20. 
Who would be, 20. 
Why wail you, pretty plover? ani 

it that you fear ? 448. 
W^ith a half-glance upon the sky. 1 
With blackest moss the fiower-plo 



Vol make our faults too 

maintain, 463. 
You. you, if you shall ; 





^^ 



-i T-5 





CONTENTS OF VOLUME II. 



The Lady of Shalott 
Mariana )n the South 
The Two Voices . 
The Miller's Daughter 



New Years Eve . 

Conclusion 
The Lotus-Eaiers . 

Choric Song 
A Dream of Fair Womei 
The Blackbird 
The Death of the Old Y< 

To ;. s 

On a Mourner . 
' Vou ask me. why. tho 
Of old sat Freedo 
heights' 
* Love thou thv land ' 
England and America in 
The Goose 



Morte d'Arthur 
The Gardener's Daughter ; 
Pictures .... 

.Audley Court 
Walking to the Mail 
Edwin Morris ; or, the Lake 

The Talking 5ak'!* ' . ' . 
Love and Duty 
The Golden Year . 

Tithonus .... 
Locksley Hall . 

Godiva 

The Day-Dream 
Prologue .... 




The Revival .... 

The Departure 

Moral 

L'Envoi 

Epilogue 

Amphion 

St. Agnes' Eve .... 
Sir Galahad .... 
Edward Gray .... 
Will Waterproof's Lyrical M^ 

logue 

Lady Clare .... 

The Captain 

The Lord of Burleigh . 

The Voyage 

Sir Launcelot and Queen Gu 

A Farewell .... 



leave 
* Come not. when I am dead.' 

■Phc Letters 

The Vision of Sin ... 
To , after reading a Life am 

Letters 

To E. L., on his Travels in Greece 

' Break, break, break ' . 

The Poet'sSong .... 



Enoc 









The Brook 
Avlraer's Field 
Sea Dreams 



The First Quarrel . . . . 

Riipah 

The Northern Cobbler 

The Revenge : A Ballad of the Fleet 





COXTEXTS. 






192 


Queen Makv 
Hakolu 




.A.> 


The Village Wife; or, the Email 
In the Children's Hospital 






Dedicatory Poem to the Princess 

Alice 

The Defense of Lucknow 

Sir John Oldcastle, Lord Cobham 


B'-.^KET 33, 

The Ct'i- 


TheVovageof Maeldune . . 
De Profundis 

The Two Greetinus 

The Human Cry 


The Falcon 
The Promise 


K Mav . 


. .... 






V. , Y 



'The mirkor crack'd from side to side." Pjge 2. 





THE LADY OF SHALOTT 



AND OTHER POEM! 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 



On either side the river lie 
Long fields of barley and of rye, 
That clothe the wold and meet the sky : 
And thro' the field the road runs by 

To many-tower'd Camelot ; 
And up and down the people go, 
Gazing where the lilies blow 
Round an island there below, 

The island of Shalott. 

Willows whiten, aspens quiver, 
Little breezes dusk and shiver 
Thro' the wave that runs for ever 
By the island in the river 

Flowing down to Camelot. 
Four gray walls, and four gray towers, 
Overlook a space of flowers, 
And the silent isle imbowers 

The Lady of Shalott. 



the heavy barges trail'd 
Hy .slow horses ; and unhail'd 
The shallop flitteth silkensail'd 

Skimming down to Camelot : 
Hut who hath seen her wave her hand ; 
Or at the casement seen her stand .' 
Or is she known in all the land. 

The Lady of Shalott ? 

Only reapers, reaping early 
In among the bearded barley. 
Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
From the river winding clearly, 

Down to lower'd Camelot : 
And by the moon the reaper weary, 
riling sheaves in uplands airy, 
I istening, whispers ' 'Tis the fairv 

Lady of Shalott.' 




There she weaves by night and day 
A magic web with colors gay. 
She has heard a whisper say, 
A curse is on her if she stay 

To look down to Camelot. 
She knows not what the curse may be, 
And so she weaveth steadily. 
And little other care hath she. 

The Lady of Shalott. 



And moving thro' a mirror clear 
That hangs before her all the year 
j Shadows of the world appear. 

There she sees the highway near 

I Winding down to Camelot : 

I There the river eddy whirls, 

And there the surly village-churls. 

And the red cloaks of market girl 

Pass onward from .Shalott. 



Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 
I An abbot on an ambling pad, 
I Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, 

Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, 
1 Goes by to towcr'd Camelot ; 

j And sometimes thro' the mirror blue 
i The knights come riding two and two : 

She hath no loyal knight and true, 
The Lady of Shalott. 



But in her web she .still delights 
To weave the mirror's magic sights, 
For often thro' the silent nights 
A funeral, with plumes and lights 

.•Vnd music, went to Camelot : 
Or when the moon was overhead. 
Came two young lovers lately wed ; 
' ] am half sick of shadows," said 

The Lady of Shalott. 




The lAxdy of Shalotl. 



PART HI. 

A BOW-SHOT frijm her hower-eaves. 

He rode lietween the b4i;ley-sh^aves, 

The sun came dazzling thro" the Waves, 

An<l flalned upon the brizen greaves 

Ot bold Sir LAncelo<. 
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd 
To a lady in his shield, 
That sparkled on the yellow field, 

Keside remote Shalott. 




idle bells rang 

As he rode down to Camelot : 
And from his blazon'd baldric slung 
A mighty silver bugle hung, 
And as he rode his armor rung, 

Keside remote Shalott. 

.All in the blue uncloudvjd weather 
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle- 
leather. 
The helmet and the helmet-feather 
Burn'd like one burning flame together. 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
-As often thro' the purple night, 
Below the starry clusters bright. 
Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 
Moves over still -Shalott. 



His broad clear brow in sunlight 

glow'd ; 
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse 

trode ; 
From underneath his helmet flow'd 
His coal-black curls as on he rode, 

.As he rode down to Camelot. 
From the bank and from the river 
He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 
' Tirra lirra,' by the river 

Sang .Sir l^ncelot. 

She left the web, she left the loom. 
She made three paces thro' the room. 
She saw the water-lily bloom. 
She saw the helmet and the plume, 

She look'd down to Camelot. 
Out flew the web and floated wide; 
The mirror crack'd from side to side ; 
' The curse is come upon me,' cried 

The Lady of Shalott. 




In the stormy east-wind straining. 

'I"he pale yellow woods were waning. 

The broad stream in his banks com- 
plaining, 
j Heavilj- the low sky raining 
Over tower'd Camelot ; 

Down she came and found a boat 

Beneath a willow left afloat, 

-\nd round about the prow she wrote 
I The Lady of Shalott. 

I And down the river's dim expanse 
I Like some bold seer in a trance. 
[ Seeing all his own mischance — 

With a glassy countenance 
I Did sHe look to Camelot. 

And at the closing of the day 

She loosed the chain, and down she 
lay 

The broad stream bore her far away. 
The Lady of Shalott. 

j Lying, robed in snowy white 
1 That loosely flew to left and right — 
i The leaves upon her falling light — 
1 Thro' the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot : 
.And as the boat-head wound along 
The willowy hills and fields among, 
j They heard her singing her last song. 
j The Lady of Shalott. 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy. 
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, 
I Till her blood was frozen slowly, 
And her eyes were darken'd wholly, 

Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. 
For ere she reach'd upon the tide 
The first house by the water-side, 
Singing in her song she died. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Under tower and balcony. 
By garden-wall and gallery, 
\ gleaming shape she floated by, 

1 Dead-pale between the houses high, 

I Silent into Camelot. 

\ Out upon the wharfs they 

I Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 

I And round the prow they read her 

I name. 

The Lady of Shalott. 






Who is this? and what 

And in the lighted 

Died the sound of royal cheer ; 

And they cross'd themselves for fea 

All the knights at Camelot : 
But Lancelot mused a little space ; 
He said, ' She has a lovely face ; 
God in his mercy lend her grace. 

The Lady of Shalott." 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 

With one black shadow at its feet, 

The house thro' all the level shines, 
Close-latticed to the brooding heat, 

And silent in its dusty vines: 

A faint-blue ridge upon the right, 

An empty river-bed before. 

And shallows on a distant shore. 

In glaring sand and inlets bright. 

But 'Ave Mary,' made she moan. 
And ' Ave Mary,' night and 
morn, 
And ' Ah,' she sang, ' to be all 
alone, 
To live forgotten, and love for- 
lorn.' 

She, as her carol sadder grew, 

From brow and bosom slowly down 
Thro' rosy taper fingers drew 

Her streaming curls of deepest 
brown 
To left and right, and made appear 
Still-lighted in a secret shrine, 
Her melancholy eyes divine. 
The home of woe without a tear. 

And ' Ave Mary,* was her moan, 
' Madonna, sad is night and 

And ' Ah,' she sang, ' to be all 
alone, 
To live forgotten, and love for- 



TiU all the crimson changed, and past 
Into deep orange o'er the sea, 

Low on her knees herself she cast. 
Before Our Lady murmur'd she ; 

Complaining, ' Mother, give me grace 
To help me of my weary load.' 



And on the liquid mirror glow'd 
The clear perfection of her face. 

' 's this the form,' she made her 
moan, 

' That won his praises night and 
morn .' ' 
And 'Ah,' she said, ' but I wake 
alone, 
I sleep forgotten, I wake for- 
lorn.' 

Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would 

bleat. 

Nor any cloud would cross the vault. 

But day increased from heat to heat. 

On stony drought and steaming sail; 

Till now at noon she slept again. 

And seem'd knee-deep in mountain 

grass. 
And heard her native breezes pass. 
And runlets babbling down the glen. 
.She breathed in sleep a lower 
moan. 
And murmuring, as at night 
and morn, 
She thought, ' My spirit is here 
alone. 
Walks forgotten, and is forlorn.' 

Dreaming, she knew it was a dream : 
She felt he was and was not there. 
She woke : the babble of the stream 
Fell, and, without, the steady glare, 
Shrank one sick willow sere and 
small. 
The river-bed was dusty-white ; 
And all the furnace of the light 
Struck up against the blinding wall. 
She whisper'd, with a stifled moan 
More inward than at night or 
morn, 
' Sweet Mother, let me not here 
alone 
Live forgotten and die forlorn.' 

And, rising, from her bosom drew 

Old letters, breathing of her worth, 
For ' Love,' they said, ' must needs be 



To what is loveliest upon earth.' 
.An image seem'd to pass the door, 
To look at her with slight, and say 





The Two Voices. 



' But now thy beauty flows away, 
So be alone for evermore.' 

' O cruel heart,' she changed her 

' And cruel love, whose end is 
scorn, 
Is this the end to be left alone. 

To live forgotten, and die for- 
lorn ? ' 

But sometimes in the falling day 

An image seem'd to pass the door, 
To look into her eyes and say, 

' But thou shalt be alone no more.' 
And flaming downward over all 

From heat to heat the day de- 
creased. 
And slowly rounded to the east 
The one black shadow from the wall. 
• The day to night,' she made her 
moan, 
' The day to night, the night to 
morn. 
And day and night I am left alone 
To live forgotten, and love for- 
lorn. 

At eve a dry cicala sung. 

There came a sound as of the .sea ; 
Backward the lattice-blind she flung, 

And lean'd upon the balcony. 
There all in spaces rosy-bright 

Large Hesper glitter'd on her tears. 

And deepening thro' the silent 
spheres 
Heaven over Heaven rose the night. 
And weeping then she made her moan, 

' The night comes on that knows 
not morn. 
When I shall cease to be all alone, 

To live forgotten, and love forlorn.' 



THE TWO VOICES. 

A STILL small voice spake unto me, 
• Thou art so full of misery, 
Were it not better not to be ? ' 

Then to the still small voice I said; 
' [.et me not cast in endless shade 
What is so wonderfully made.' 





To which the ■ 

'To-day I saw the dragon-i 

Come from the wells where he did lie. 

' An inner impulse rent the veil 
Of his old husk : from head to tail 
Came out clear plates of sapphire 
mail. 

' He dried his wings : like gauze they 

grew ; 
Thro' crofts and pastures wet with dew 
A living flash of light he flew.' 

I said, ' When first the world began. 
Young Nature thro' five cycles ran. 
And in the sixth she moulded man. 

' -She gave him mind, the lordliest 
Proportion, and, above the rest, 
Dominion in the head and breast.' 

Thereto the silent voice replied ; 

' Self-blinded are you by your pride : 

Look up thro' night : the world is wide. 

' This truth within thy mind rehearse. 

That in a boundless universe 

Is boundless better, boundless worse. 

' Think you this mould of hopes and 

fears 
Could find no statelier than his peers 
In yonder hundred million spheres > ' 

It spake, moreover, in my mind: 

' Tho' thou wert scattered to the wind. 

Yet is there plenty of the kind.' 

Then did my response clearer fall : 
' No compound of this earthly ball 
Is like another, all in all.' 

To which he answer'd scoffingly ; 
' Good soul ! suppose I grant it thee. 
Who'll weep for thy deficiency.' 

' Or will one beam be less intense, 

When thy peculiar dilierence 

Is cancell'd in the world of sense 

I would have said, • Thou canst 





The Two Voices. 



Hut my full heart, that work'd below, 
Kain'd thro' my sight its overflow. 

Again the voice spake unto me : 
• Thou art so steep'd in misery, 
Surely 'twere better not to be. 

' Thine anguish will not let thee sleep, 
Nor any train of reason keep : 
Thou canst not think, but thou wilt 
weep.' 

1 said, ' The years with change ad- 

If I make dark my countenance, 
I shut my life from happier chance. 



Ev'n yet.' But he: 'What drug can make 
.\ wither'd palsy cease to shake .' ' 

I wept, ' Tho' I should die, I know 
That all about the thorn will blow 
In tufts of rosy-tinted snow ; 

■ And men, thro" novel spheres of 

thought 
Still moving after truth long sought. 
Will learn new things when I am not.' 

' Yet,' said the secret voice, ' some 

time. 
Sooner or later, will gray prime 
Make thy grass hoar with early rime. 

' Not less swift souls that yearn for 

light. 
Rapt after heaven's starry flight, 
Would sweep the tracts of day and 

night. 

' Xot less the bee would range her cells, 
The furzy prickle fire the dells. 
The fo.xglove cluster dappled bells.' 

I said that ' all the years invent; 
Each month is various to present 
The world with some development. 

' Were this not well, to bide mine hour, 

Tho' 

How grows the day of human power ? ' 





• Will thirty seasons render 
Those lonely lights that sti 
Jnsi breaking over land an 



• The highest-mounted mind,' he said, 

• Still sees the sacred morning spread 
The silent summit overhead. 



' Or make that mom, from his cold 

crown 
And crystal silence creeping down, 
Flood with full daylight glebe and 

town .' 

' Forerun thy peers, thy time, and let 
Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set 
In midst of knowledge, dream'd not 
yet. 

'Thou hast not gain'd a real height. 
Nor art thou nearer to the light. 
Because the scale is infinite. 

' 'Twere better not to breathe or speak. 
Than cry for strength, remaining weak. 
And seem to find, but still to seek. 

' Moreover, but to seem to find 

Asks what thou lackest, thought 

resign'd, 
/V healthy frame, a quiet mind.' 



I said, ' When I am gone 



away. 



" He dared not tarry," men will say 
Doing dishonor to my clay.' 

' This is more vile,' he made reply, 
'To breathe and loathe, to live and 

sigh, 
Than once from dread of pain to die. 

' Sick art thou— a divided will 
Still heaping on the fear of ill 
The fear of men, a coward still. 



' Do men love thee ? Art tl 

bound 
To men, that how thy name may 
Will vex thee lying undergro 



• The memory- of the wither'd leaf 
In endless time is scarce more brief 
Than of the garner'd Autumn-sheaf. 





The Two Voices. 



' Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust; 
The right ear, that is fill'd with dust, 
Hears little of the false or just.' 



' Hard task, to pluck resolve,' I cried, 
' From emptiuess and the waste wide 
Of that abyss, or scornful pride I 

' Nay — rather yet that I could raise 
One hope that warm'd me in the days 
While still I yearn'd for human praise. 

' When, wide in soul and bold of 

tongue, 
Among the tents I paused and sung, 
The distant battle flash'd and rung. 

' I sung the joyful Paean clear, 
And, sitting, burnish'd without fear 
The brand, the buckler, and the 



' Waiting to strive a happy strife, 
To war with falsehood to the knife, 
And not to lose the good of life— 

' Some hi'dden principle to move, 
To put together, part and prove. 
Anil mete the bounds of hate and 



As far as might be, to carv 
Free space for every ' 



doubt, 



tree space tor every human doubt, 
That the whole mind might orb 
about — 

• To search thro' all I felt or saw. 
The springs of life, the depths of awe, 
And reach the law within the law: 



' .^t least, not rotting like a weed. 
But, having sown some generous seed. 
Fruitful of further thought and deed, 

' To pass, when Life her light with- 
draws, 
Not void of righteous self-applause, 
Nor in a merely selfish cause — 



' In some good cause, not in mine own. 
To perish, wept for, honor'd, known, 
.\nd like a warrior overthrown ; 





' Whose eyes are dim with glorious 

tears. 
When, soil'd with noble dust, he hears 
His country's war-song thrill his ears : 

' Then dying of a mortal stroke. 
What time the foeman's line is broke, 
And all the war is roll'd in smoke.' 

' Yea ! ' said the voice, ' thy dream 

was good. 
While thou abodest in the bud. 
It was the stirring of the blood. 

' If Nature put not forth her power 
About the opening of the flower, 
Who is it that could live an ho\ir ? 

' Then comes the check, the change, 

the fall, 
Pain rises up, old pleasures pall. 
There is one remedy for all. 



Of knitted purport, all were vain. 

' Thou hadst not between death and 

birth 
Dissolved the riddle of the earth. 
So were thy labor little-worth. 

'That men with knowledge merely 

play'd, 
I told thee — hardly nigher made, 
Tho' scaling slow from grade to 

grade ; 

' Much less this dreamer, deaf and 

blind, 
Named man, may hope some truth to 

find. 
That bears relation to the mind. 

' For everv worm beneath the moon 
Draws different threads, and late and 

soon 
Spins, toiling out his own cocoon. 

' Cry, faint not : either Truth is born 
Bevond the polar gleam forlorn, 
Or'in the gateways of the i 





The Two Voices. 



'Cry, faint not, climb: the summits 

slope 
Heyond the furthest flights of hope. 
Wrapt in dense cloud from base to 

cope. 

' Sometimes a little corner shines, 

As over rainy mist inclines 

A gleaming crag with belts of pines. 

' I will go forward, sayest thou, 
I shall not fail to find her now. 
Look up, the fold is on her brow. 

' If straight thy track, or if oblique. 
Thou know'st not. Shadows thou 

dost strike, 
Embracing cloud, I.\ion-like ; 

' And owning but a little more 
Than beasts, abidest lame and poor. 
Calling thyself a little lower 

' Than angels. Cease to wail and 

brawl ! 
Why inch by inch to darkness crawl .' 
There is one remedy for all.' 

' O dull, one-sided voice,' said I, 
' Wilt Ihou make everything a lie, 
To flatter me that I may die ? 

' I know that age to age succeeds, 
Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, 
A dust of systems and of creeds. 

' I cannot hide that some have striven. 
Achieving calm, to whom was given 
The joy that mixes man with Heaven: 

' Who, rowing hard against the 



• But heard, by secret transport led, 

Ev'n in the charnels of the dead, 

The murmur of the fountain-head — 

' Which did accomplish their desire. 
Bore and forebore, and did not tire. 
Like Stephen, an unquenched fire. 





' He heeded not reviling tones. 
Nor sold his heart to idle moans, 
Tho' cursed and scorn'd, and bruised 
with stones : 

' But looking upward, full of grace. 
He pray'd, and from a happy place 
God's glory smote him on the face.' 

The sullen answer slid betwixt : 

' Not that the grounds of hope were 



I said, ' I toil beneath the curse. 
But, knowing not the universe, 
I fear to slide from bad to worse. 

' And that, in seeking to undo 
One riddle, and to find the true, 
I knit a hundred others new : 

' Or that this anguish fleeting hence, 
Unmanacled from bonds of sense. 
Be fix'd and froz'n to permanence : 

' For I go, weak from suffering here : 
Naked I go, and void of cheer ; 
What is it that I may not fear ? ' 

' Consider well,' the voice replied, 
' His face, that two hours since hath 

died ; 
Wilt thou find passion, pain or pride ? 

' Will he obey when one commands ? 
Or answer should one press his 



' His palms are folded on his breast : 
There is no other thing express'd 
But long disquiet merged in rest. 

' His lips are very mild and meek : 
Tho' one should smite him on the 

cheek. 
And on the mouth, he will not speak. 

' His little daughter, whose sweet face 
He kiss'd, taking his last embrace. 
Becomes dishonor to her race — 





The Two Voices. 



' His sons grow up that bear 

name, 
Some grow to honor, some 



Hut lie 1 



chill 1 



praise i 



bla 



• He will not hear the north-wind 

rave, 
Nor, moaning, household shelter crave 
From winter rains that beat his grave. 

' High up the vapors fold and swim : 
About him broods the twilight dim : 
The place he knew forgetteth him.' 

' If all be dark, vague voice,' I said, 
' These things are wrapt in doubt and 

dread, 
Nor canst thou show the dead are 

dead. 

' The sap dries up : the plant declines. 
\ deeper tale my heart divines. 
Know I not Death ? the outward 

signs ? 

' I found him when my years were 

few ; 
A shadow on the graves I knew. 
And darkness in the village yew. 

' From grave to grave the shadow 

crept : 
In her still place the morning wept : 
Touch'd by his feet the daisy slept. 

' The simple senses crown'd his head : 
" Omega ! thou art Lord," they said, 
" We find no motion in the dead." 

' Why, if man rot in dreamless ease, 
Should that plain fact, as taught by 

these. 
Not make him sure that he shall 

cease ? 

' Who forged that other influence, 
That heat of inward evidence, 

! which he doubts against the sense ? 



' He owns the fatal gift of eyes. 
That read his spirit blindly wise, 
Not simple as a thing that dies. 





' Here sits he shaping wings to fly : 
His heart forebodes a mystery : 
He names the name Eternity. 

' That type of Perfect in his mind 
In Nature can he nowhere find. 
He sows himself on every wind. 

' He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend, 
And thro' thick veils to apprehend 
A labor working to an end. 

' The end and the beginning vex 
His reason : many things perplex, 
With motions, checks, and counter- 
checks. 

' He knows a baseness in his blood 
At such strange war with something 

good. 
He may not do the thing he would. 

' Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn, 
Vast images in glimmering dawn. 
Half shown, are broken and with- 
drawn. 

' Ah ! sure within him and without. 
Could his dark wisdom find it out. 
There must be answer to his doubt, 

' But thou canst answer not again. 
With thine own weapon art thou 

slain. 
Or thou wilt answer but in vain. 

' The doubt would rest, I dare not 

solve. 
In the same circle we revolve. 
Assurance only breeds resolve.' 

As when a billow, blown against. 
Falls back, the voice with which I 

fenced 
A little ceased, but recommenced. 

' Where wert thou when thy father 

play'd 
In his free field, ani' pastime made. 
A merry boy in sun and shade .' 



' \ merry boy they call'd h 
He .sat upon the knees of ii 
In days that never cf 





The Two Voices. 



' Before the little ducts began 

To feed thy bones with lime, and ran 

Their course, till thou wert also man : 

' Who took a wife, who rear'd his 

race, 
Whose wrinkles gather'd on his face, 
Whose troubles number with his 

days : 

' A life of nothings, nothing-worth, 
From that first nothing ere his birth 
To that last nothing under earth ! ' 

'These words,' I said, 'are like the 

rest; 
No certain clearness, but at best 
A vague suspicion of the breast : 

' But if I grant, thou mightst defend 
The thesis which thy words intend — 
That to begin implies to end ; 

' Yet how should I for certain hold. 
Because my memory is so cold, 
That I first was in human mould ? 



' I cannot make this matter plaii 
But I would shoot, howe'er in v 
A random arrow from the brain. 



' It may be that no life is found, 
Which only to one engine bound 
Falls off, but cycles always round. 

' As old mythologies relate. 

Some draught of Lethe might await 

The slipping thro' from state to state. 

' As here we find in trances, men 
Forget the dream that happens then. 
Until they fall in trance again. 

' So might we, if our state were such' 
As one before, remember much. 
For those two likes might meet and 
touch. 



psed from nobler place, 
legend of a fallen raee 
might hint o( my disgrace ; 





' Some vague emotion of delight 
In gazing up an Alpine height. 
Some yearning toward the lamps of 
night ; 

' Or if thro' lower lives I came — 
Tho' all experience past became 
Consolidate in mind and frame — 

' I might forget my weaker lot ; 
For is not our first year forgot .' 
The haunts of memory echo not. 

' And men, whose reason long was 

blind. 
From cells of madness unconfined. 
Of lose whole years of darker mind. 

' Much more, if first I floated free. 
As naked essence, must I be 
Incompetent of memory : 

' For memory dealing but with time, 
And he with matter, could she climb 
Beydnd her own material prime } 

' Moreover, something is or seems, 
That touches me with mystic gleams. 
Like glimpses of forgotten dreams — 

' Of something felt, like something 

Of something done, I know not 

where ; 
Such as no language may declare." 



The; 



lugh'c 



' Not with thy dreams. 

thee 
Thy pain is a reality.' 



• I talk,' said 
Suffice it 



■ hast 



' But thou,' said I 

mark. 
Who sought'st to wreck 



issed thy 
ly mortal 
By making all the horizon dark. 

' Why not set forth, if I should do 
This rashness, that which might 

With this old soul in organs new ? 





TJie Two Voices. 



' Whatever crazy sorrow saith, 

No life that breathes with human 

breath 
Has ever truly long'd for death. 

' 'Tis life, whereof our nerves are 

Oh life, not death, for which we pant; 
More life, and fuller, that I want.' 

I ceased, and sat as one forlorn. 
Then said the voice, in quiet scorn, 
' Behold, it is the Sabbath morn.' 

And I arose, and I released 

The casement, and the light increased 

With freshness in the dawning east. 

Like soften'd airs that blowing steal, 
When meres begin to uncongeal, 
The sweet church bells began to peal. 

On to God's house the people prcst : 
Passing the place where each must 

rest, 
Each enter'd like a welcome guest. 

One walk'd between his wife and 

child, • 
With measured footfall firm and mild. 
And now and then he gravely smiled. 

The prudent partner of his blood 
Lean'd on him, faithful, gentle, good. 
Wearing the rose of womanhood. 

And in their double love secure, 
The little maiden walU'd demure, 
Pacing with downward eyelids pure. 

These three made unity so sweet, 
My frozenheart began to beat. 
Remembering its ancient heat. 

I blest them, and they wander'd on : 

spoke, but answer came there none : 
The dull and bitter voice was gone. 



lid voice was at mine e 
A little whisper silver-clear, 
A murmur, ' Be of better che^ 





As from some blissful neighborhood, 

A notice faintly understood, 

'I see the end, and know the good.' 

A little hint to solace woe, 

A hint, a whisper breathing low, 

'I may not speak of what I know.' 

Like an /^iolian harp that wakes 
No certain air, but overtakes 
Far thought with music that it 
makes : 

Such secm'd the whisper at my side : 
' What is it thou knowest, sweet 

voice.' ' 1 cried. 
' A hidden hope,' the voice replied : 

So heavenly-toned, that in that hour 
From out my sullen heart a power 
Broke, like the rainbow from the 
shower, 

To feel, altho' no tongue can prove. 
That every cloud; that spreads above 
And veileth love, itself is love. 

And forth into the fields I went. 
And Nature's living motion lent 
The pulse of hope to discontent. 



I wonder'd at the bounteous himrs. 
The slow result of winter showers; 
You scarce could see the grass for 



There seem'd no room for sens 
wrong ; 

And all so variously wrought, 
I marvell'd how the mind was hro 
To anchor by one gloomy though 

And wherefore rather I made choice 
To commune with that barren voice, 
Than him that said, ' Rejoice 1 
Rejoice ! ' 





The Millers Daughter. 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 

SEE the wealthy miller yet, 

His doul)le chin, his portly size, 
And who that knew him could forget 

The busy wrinkles round his eyes ? 
The slow wise smile that, round about 

His dusty forehead drily curl'd, 
Seem'd hal'f-within and half-without. 

And full of dealings with the 
world ? 

In yonder chair I see him sit. 

Three fingers round the old silver 
cup — 
I see his gray eyes twinkle yet 

At his own jest — gray eyes lit up 
With summer lightnings of a soul 

So full of summer warmth, so glad, 
So healthy, sound, and clear and 
whole, 
His memory scarce can make me 
sad. 

Yet fill my glass : give me one kiss : 
My own sweet Alice, we must die. 

There's somewhat in this world amiss 
Shall be unriddled by and by. 

There's somewhat flows to us in life, 
Knt more is taken quite away. 

That we may die the self-same day. 

Have I not found a happy earth ? 

I least should breathe a thought of 
pain. 
Would God renew me from my birth 

I'd almost live my life again. 
So sweet it seems with thee to walk. 

And once again to woo thee mine — 
It seems in after-dinner talk 

Across the walnuts and the wine — 

To be the long and listless boy 

Late-left an orphan of the squire. 
Where this old mansion mounted 
nigh 

Looks flown upon the village spire : 
For even here, where I and you 

Have lived and loved alone so 
long. 
Each morn my sleep was broken thro' 

Ilv some wild skylark's matin song. 





And oft I heard the tender dove 
In firry woodlands making i 



I had no motion of my own. 
For scarce my life with fancy play'd 

Before I dream'd that pleasant 
dream — 
Still hither thither idly sway'd 

Like those long mosses in the 



Or from the bridge I lean'd to hear 

The milldam rushing down with 
noise. 
And see the minnows everywhere 

In crystal eddies glance and poise. 
The tall flag-fiowers when thev sprung 

Helow the range of stepping-stones. 
Or those three chestnuts near, that 
hung 

In masses thick with milky cones. 

But, Alice, what an hour was that. 

When after roving in the woods 
{'Twas April then), I came and sat 

Below the chestnuts, when their 
buds 
Were glistening to the breezy blue ; 

And on the slope, an absent fool, 
I cast me down, nor thought of you. 

But angled in the higher pool. 



A love-song I had somewhere read. 

An echo frrfm a measured strain. 
Beat time to nothing in my head 

From some odd corner of the 
brain. 
It haunted me, the morning long. 

With weary sameness in the rhymes. 
The phantom of a silent song. 

That went and came a thousand 
times. 



Then leapt a trout. In lazv mood 

I watch'd the little circles die ; 
They past into the level flood. 

And there a vision caught my eye ; 
The reflex of a beauteous fornii 

A glowing arm, a gleaming neck, 
.\s when a sunbeam wav 

Within the dark and dimpled beck. 





The Millers Daughter. 



For 3'ou rememl-jer, you had set, 

That morning, on the casement-edge 
A long green box of mignonette. 
And you were leaning from the 
ledge : 
And when I raised my eyes, above 
They met with two so fidl and 
bright — 
Snch eyes ! I swear to you, mv love, 
That these have never lost their 
light. 

I loved, and love dispell'd the tear 

That I should die an early death : 
For love possess'd the atmosphere, 

And fiird the breast witli purer 
breath. 
My mother thought, What ails the 
boy .' 

For I was alter'd, and began 
To move about the house with jpy, 

And with the certain step of man. 



And oft in ramblings on the wold, 
When April nights be.^n to blow. 

And .'April's crescent glimmer'd cold, 
I saw the village lights below; 

And full at heart of trembling hope. 
From off the wold I came, and lay 
Upon the freshly-fiower'd slope. 



The deep brook gr 
And ' bv that lam 



I'd beneath 
I thought, ' 



The white chalk-quarry from the hill 
Oleam'd to the flying moon by fits. 

' ( > that I were beside her now ! 
() will she answer if I call .' 

O would she give me vow for vow, 
Alice, if I told her all ? 





Sometimes 1 saw j-ou sit and spin ; 

And, in the pauses of the wind. 
Sometimes I heard yon sing within ; 

Sometimes vour shadow cross'd the 
blind. ' 
At last you rose and moved the light. 

And the long shadow of the chair 
Flitted across into the night. 

And all the casement darken'd 
there. 

But when at last I dared to speak. 
The lanes, you know, were white 
with may, 
Your ripe lips moved not, but your 
cheek 
Flush'd like the coming of the day ; 
And so it was — half-sly, half-shy. 
You would, and would not, little 

Although I pleaded tenderly. 
And you and I were all alone. 



I loved the brimming wave that swam 


And sl.uvlv w,is mv mother brought 


Thro' quiet meadows round tlu- mill, 


To Yield consent to mv desire : 


The sleepy pool above the dam, 


She wish'd me happy, but she thought 


The pool beneath it never still. 


I nii-ht have look'd a little higher; 


The meal-sacks on the whiten 'd floor. 


And I was vouno-too voung towed: 


The dark round of the dripping 


■Yet must Hove her for x°n„- sake; 


wheel. 


Go fetch vour Alice here,' she said : 


The verv air about the door 


Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake. 


Made misty with the floating meal. 





And down I went to fetch my bride : 
But, Alice, vou were ill at ease ; 

This dress and that by turns you tried. 
Too fearful that you should not 
]5lease. 

I loved you better for your fears, 
I knew vou could not look but well ; 

And dews, that would have fall'u in 

I kiss'd away before they fell. 

I watch 'd the little flutterings. 

The doubt my mother would not see ; 
She spoke at large of many things. 

And at the last she spoke of me ; 
And turning look'd upon vour face. 

As near this door you s 
And rose, and, with a silent grace 

Approaching, press'd you heart 
heart. 





All, well — but sing the toolisli song 

you, Alice, on the day 
When, arm in arm, we went along, 

A pensive pair, and you were gay 
With bridal flowers — thai 1 may seem, 

As in the nights of old, to lie 
Beside the mill-wheel in the stream. 
While those full chestnuts whisper 
by. 

It is the miller's daughter, 



Andsh 




vn so 


ear 


sode 


ir, 


That I wc 


uld be the je 


vel 






That tr 


mbles 


nher 


ear: 






For hid ir 


ringle 


sdav 


and 


niRht, 




I'd touch 


heme 


ksovv 


arm 


and w 


hue. 



And I would be the girdle 

About her dainty dainty waist, 
And her heart would beat against me. 



And I would be the necklace. 
And all day lonj,' to fall and rise 

Upon her balmy bosom, 
With her laughter or her sighs. 

And I would lie so light, so light, 

I scarce should be unclasp'd at night. 



vhich 



love 



True love interprets — right alone. 
His light upon the letter dwells, 

For all the spirit is his own. 
So, if I waste words now, in truth 
You must blame Love. His early 
rage 
Had force to make me rhyme in 
youth, 
And makes me talk too much in 
age. 

And now those vivid hours are gone, 

Like mine own life to me thou art. 
Where Past and Present, wound in 



Do make a garland for the heart : 
So sing that other song I made, 

Half-anger'd with my happy lot, 
The day, when in the chestnut shade 

' found the blue Forget-me-not. 




Love that hath us in the net. 
Can he pass, and we forget ? 
Many suns arise and set. 
Many a chance the years beget 
Love the gift is Love the debt. 
Even so. 




Love is h 


jrt with jar and fre 


Love IS m 


ade a vague regret 


Eyes Witt 


idle tears are wet 


Idle habit 


linlis us yet. 


What is k 


ve? for we forget 



Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True 
Round my true heart thine arms eu- 

My other dearer life in life. 

Look thro' my very soul with thine ! 
Untouch'd with any shade of years. 

May those kind eyes forever dwell ! 
They have not shed a many tears. 

Dear eyes, since first 1 knew them 



Yet tears they shed : they had their 

Of sorrow: for when time was ripe. 
The still affection of the heart 

liecame an outward breathing tvpe. 
That into stillness passed again. 

And left a want unknown before : 
Although the loss had brought us pain. 

That loss but made us love the 
more. 



With farther lookings on. The kiss. 

The woven arms, seem but to be 
W'eak symbols of the settled bliss. 

The c'omforl, I have lount! in thee : 
But that God bless thee, dear— who 
wrought 
Two spirits to one equal mind — 
With blessings beyond hope or 
thought. 
With blessings which no words can 
find. 

Arise, and let us wander forth, 
To yon old mill across the wold.s ; 

For look, the sunset, south and north. 
Winds all the vale in rosy folds, 




Fatima — CEiionc. 



And fires yuur iiarruvv casement glass, 

Touching the sullen pool below: 

On the chalk-hill the bearded grass 

; dry and dewless. Let us go. 

FATIMA. 

O Love, Love, Love ! O withering 
might ! 

sun, that from thy noonday height 
hihudderest when I strain my sight. 
Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light, 

Lo, falling from my constant mind, 
Lo, parch d and wither'd, deat and 

blind, 
I whirl like leaves in roaring wind. 

Last night I wasted hateful hours 
lielow the city's eastern towers : 

1 thirsted for the brooks, the showers : 
1 roU'd among the tender flowers: 

I crush'd them on my breast, my 

mouth ; 
I look'd athwart the burning drouth 
Of that long desert to the south. 

Last night, when some one spoke his 

name. 
From my swift blood that went and 

came 
A thousand little shafts of flame 
Were shiver'd in my narrow frame. 
O Love, O fire ! once he drew 
With one long kiss niv whole soul 

thro' 
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. 

Before he mounts the hill, I know 
He Cometh quickly: from below 
Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, 

blow 
Before him, striking on my brow. 
In my dry brain my spirit soon, 
Down-deepening from swoon to 




ke a dazzled i 



ingi 



-The wind sounds like a silver wire, 
And from beyond the noon a fire 
Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher 
The skies stoop down in their desire ; 
And, isled in sudden seas of light. 




My heart, pierced thro' with fierce 

delight. 
Bursts into blossom in his sight. 

My whole :;oul waiting silently. 

All naked in a sultry sky, 

Droops blinded with his shining eye : 

I wiii possess him or will die. 

I will grow round him in his place, 
Grow, live, die looking on his face, 

Die, dying clasped in his embrace. 



GENONE. 

There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier 

Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. 

The swimming vapor slopes athwart 
the glen, 

Puts forth ai) arm, and creeps from 
pine to pine, 

And loiters, slowly drawn. On either 
hand 

The lawns and meadow-ledges mid- 
way down 

Hang rich in flowers, and far below 
them roars 

The long brook falling thro' the 
clov'n ravine 

In cataract after cataract to the sea. 

Behind the valley topmost Gargarus 

Stands up and takes the morning: 
but in front 

The gorges, opening wide apart, re- 
veal 

Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel. 

The crown of Troas. 

Hither came at noon 

Mournful CEnone, wandering forlorn 

Of Paris, once her plavmale on the 
hills. 

Her cheek had lost the rose, and 
round her neck 

Floated her hair or seem'd to float in 

She, leaning on a fragm 
with vine. 

Sang to the stillness, till the mountain- 
shade 

Sloped downward to 
upper cliff. 





' O mother Ida, many-fountain'd 

Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
For now the noonday quiet holds the 



,ilen 



igras. 




Rests like a shadow, and the winds 

are dead. 
The purple flower droops : the golden 

bee 
Is lily-cradled : I alone awake. 
My eyes are full of tears, my heart of 

love. 
My heart is breaking, and my eyes are 

dim. 
And I am all aweary of my life. 

' O mother Ida, many-fountain'd 

Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Hear me, O Earth, hear me, U Hills, 

O Caves 
That house the cold cruwn'd snake ! 



I am 


the daughter ot a Kive 


-IJod 


Hear 


me, for I will speak, 
up all 


nd build 


Mv sorrow wjth my sonE;. a 


s yonder 




walls 




Rose 


slowlvtoa music slowly 


jreathed. 


A cloud that gather'd shape : for it 




may be 




That, 


while I speak of it, a 1 


ttle while 


My h 


ean may wander from 


ts deeper 


•o 


mother Ida, manv-fountain'd 




Ida, 




Dear 


mother Ida, harken eie 


I die. 


I wa 


ted underneath the 
hills. 


uawiimg 


Aloft 


the mountain lawn « 
dark, 


as dewy- 


And 


dewv-dark aloft the 





Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, 
Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, 

white-hooved, 
Came up from reedy Simois all alone. 




O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 



Far off the torrent call'd me from the 

cleft : 
Far up the solitary morning smote 
The streaks of virgin snow. With 

down-dropt eyes 
I sat alone : white-breasted like a star 
Fronting the dawn he moved ; a leop- 

Droop'd from his shoulder, but his 

Cluster'd about his temples like a 

God's : 
And his cheek brighten'd as the foam- 

buw briglitens 
When the wind blows the foam, and 

all my heart 
Went forth to embrace him coming 

ere he came. 



'Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
He smiled, and opening out his milli- 

white palm 
Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian 

gold. 
That smelt ambrosially, and while I 

look'd 
And listen'd, the full-flowing river of 

speech 
Came down upon my heart. 

'" My own CEnone, 
Beautiful-brow'd CEnone, my own soul, 
Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind 

ingrav'n 
' For the most fair,' would seem to 

award it thine, 
As lovelier than whatever Oread 

haunt 
The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace 
Of movement, and the charm of 

married brows." 



' Dear mother Ida, liarken ere I die. 
He prest the blossom of his lips to 

And added " This was cast upon the 
board. 

When all the full-faced presence of 
the Gods 

Ranged in the halls of Peleus ; where- 
upon 

Rose feud, with question unto whom 
'twere due: 





But light-foot Ivis brought it yester- 

eve, 
Delivering, that to me, by common 



Elected umpire. Here comes to-day, 
Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each 
This meed o£ fairest. Thou, within 

the cave 
Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest 

pine, 
Mayst well behold them unbeheld, 

unheard 
Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of 

Gods." 

• Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
It was the deep midnoon : one silvery 
cloud 

way between the piney 



Had 



.ides 



Of this long glen. Then to the bower 
they came. 

Naked they came to that smooth- 
swarded bower, 

And at their feet the crocus bralje like 
fire, 

Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, 

.\nd overhead the wandering ivy and 

This way and that, in many a wild 

festoon 
Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled 

With bunch and berry and flower thro' 
and thro'. 



ether Ida, 1 



thet 



sted 



peac 



And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, 

and lean'd 
Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant 

dew. 
Then first I heard the voice of her, to 

whom 
Coming thro' Heaven, like a light 

that grows 
Larger and clearer, with one mind the 

Gods 
■ Rise up for reverence. She to Paris 

made 
Proffer of royal power, ample rule 
Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue 





embellish state, "from 
ipaign clothed 



And river-sunder'd ch; 

with corn, 
Or labor'd mine undrainable of ore. 
Honor,** she said, " and homage, tax 

and toll, 
From many an inland town and haven 

large,_ 
Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing 

citadel 
In glassy bays among her tallest 



' O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Still she spake on and still she spake 

of power, 
" Which in all action is the end of 



Power fitted 

bred 
And throned 



of 



isdc 



wisdom- 
from all 



neighbor crowns 
Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand 
Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such 

From me. Heaven's Queen, Paris, to 

thee king-born, 
A shepherd all thy life but yet king- 
born, 
Should come most welcome, seeing 

men, in power 
Only, are likestgods, who have attain'd 
Rest in a happy place anil quiet seals 
Above .the thunder, with undying bliss 
In knowledge of their own suprem- 



Out at arm's-length, so much the 

thought of power 
Flatter'd his spirit; but Pallas where 

she stood 
Somewhat apart, her clear and bared 

limbs 
O'erthvvarted with the brazen-headed 

spear 
Upon her pearly shoulder leaning 

cold, 
The while, above, her full and earnest 

eye 





Over her snow-cold breast and angry 

cheek 
Kept watch, waiting decision, made 

reply. 

' " Self-reverence, self-knowledge, 
self-control. 

These three alone lead life to sovereign 
power. 

Yet not for power (power of her.self 

Would come uncall'd for) but to live 
by law, 

Acting the law we live by without 
fear; 

And, because right is right, to follow 
right 

Were wisdom in the scorn of conse- 
quence." 



' Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Again she said : " I woo thee not with 

gifts. 
Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 
To fairer. Judge thou me by what I 

am. 
So shalt thou find me fairest. 

Yet, indeed, 
If gazing on divinity disrobed 
Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of 

Unbias'd by self-profit, oh ! rest thee 

sure 
That I shall love thee well and cleave 

to thee. 
So that my vigor, wedded to thy blood. 
Shall strike within thy pulses, like a 

God's, 
To push thee forward thro' a life of 

shocks. 
Dangers, and deeds, until endurance 

the full- 




Sinew'd with acti( 

grown will, 
Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, 
Commeasure perfect freedom." 

' Here she ceas'd, 
And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, " O 

Paris, 
Give it to Pallas ! " but he heard me 

not. 
Or hearing would not hear me, woe is 




' O mothe 

Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere 
Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, 
Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in 

Paphian wells. 
With rosy slender fingers backward 

drew ■ 
From her warm brows and bosom her 

deep hair 
Ambrosial, golden round her lucid 

throat 
And shoulder : from the violets hci 

light foot 
Shone rosv-white, and o'er her rounded 

form 
Between the shadows of the vine- 
bunches 
Floated the glowing sunlights, as she 

moved. 



The herald of her triumph, drawing 



Half-whisi 



pro 



shut my 



thee 
The fairest and most lo 

Greece," 
She spoke and laugh'd ; 

sight for fear : 
But when I look'd, Paris had raised 

his arm, 
And I beheld great Herd's angry eyes. 
As slie withdrew into the golden cloud. 
And I was left alone within the 

bower ; 
And from that time to this I am alone. 
And I shall be alone until I die. 



My love hath told me : 



Eyed like the evening star, with ph 

fnl tail 
Crouch'd fawning in the weed. M' 




They came, they 

pines, 
My tall dark pines, that pi 

ciaggy ledge 
High over the blue gurge, 

between 
The snowy peak and snovv-wh 



Foster'd the call 

beneath 
Whose thick mysterious boughs ir 

the dark morn 
The panther's roar came muffled 



cata- 
eaglet-f.on, 



Low in the valley. Never, never more 
Shall lone Oinone see the morning 

mist 
Sweep thro' them ; never see them 

With narrow moon-lit slips of silver 

cloud, 
Between the loud stream and the 

trembling stars. 



' O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd 

folds. 
Among the fragments tumbled from 

the glens, 
Or the dry thickets, I could meet 

with her 
The Abominable, that uninvited came 
Into the fair Peleian banquet-hall. 
And cast the golden fruit, upon the 

board, 
And bred this change ; that I might 

speak my mind, 
And tell her to her face how much I 

hate 
Her presence, hated both of Gods 




' O mother, hear me yet befon 
die. 
Hath he not sworn his love a thou- 

In this green valley, under this green 

hill, 
Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this 

stone .' 
Seal'd it wjth kisses.' water'd it with 

O happy tears, and how unlike to 

these! 
O happy Heaven, how canst thou see 

my face ? 

happy earth, how canst thou bear 

my weight ? 

(_) death, death, death, thou ever-float- 
ing cloud. 

There are eiiough unhappy on this 
earth. 

Pass by the happy souls, that love to 

1 pray thee, pass before my light of 

life, 
And shadow all my soul, that I may 

die. 
Thou weighest heavy on the heart 

within. 
Weigh heavy on my eyelids : let me 

die. 

' U mother, hear me vet before I 



Do shape i 

and more. 
Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear 
Dead sounds at night come from th( 

inmost hills. 
Like footsteps upon wool. I diml; 



jbtful 



of he 



My far-off do 

mother 
Conjectures of the feati 

child 
Ere it is born : her child ! — a shudder 

comes 
Across me : never child be born of 



Unblest, to vex 
eyes I 





Walking the cold and starless rosd of 

Death 
Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love 
With the Greek woman. I will rise 

and go 
Down into Troy, and ere the stars 

come forth 
Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she 

says 
A fire dances before her, and a sound 
Rings ever in her ears of armed men. 
What this may be I know not, but I 



That, wheresoe'er 


I am by night and 


day, 




.AH earth and air 


seem only burning 



THE SISTERS. 

We were two daughters of one race : 
She was the fairest in the face : 

The wind is blowing in turret and 
tree. 
They were together, and she fell ; 
Therefore revenge became me well. 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

She died r she went to burning flame : 
She mix'd her ancient blood with 
shame. 
Tlie wind is howling in turret and 



Whole 



2ks and months, and early 



I made a feast ; I bad him come ; 
I won his love, I brought him home. 

The wind is roaring in turret and 
tree. 
.'\nd after supper, on a bed,' 
Upon my lap he laid his head 

C) the Earl was fair to see ! 




O the Earl was fair to see ! 



I rose up ni the silent night : 
I made my dagger sharp and bright. 
The wind is raving in turret and 
tree. 
As half-asleep his breath he drew. 
Three times I stabb'd him thro' and 
thro'. 
O the Earl was fair to see ! 

I curl'd and comb'd his comely head. 
He look'd so grand when he was 
dead. 
The wind is blowing in turret and 

I wrapt his body in the sheet. 
And laid him at his mother's feet. 
O the Earl was fair to see ! 



WITH 



POEM. 



I SEND 5-ou here a sort of allegory, 
(For you will understand it) of a soul, 
A sinful soul possess'd of many gifts, 
A spacious garden full of flowering 

weeds, 
A glorious Devil, large in heart and 

That did love Beauty only, (Beauty 

seen 
In all varieties of mould and mind) 
And Knowledge for its beauty ; or if 

Good, 
Good only for its beauty, seeing not 
That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge, 

are three sisters 
That doat upon each other, friends to 



And he that shuts Lo' 

shall be 
Shut out from Love, an- 

threshold lie 





Howling i 

this 
Was common clay ta 

common earth 
Moulded by God, and temper'd with 

the t'ears 
Of angels to the perfect shape of 



THE PALACE OF ART. 

I BUILT my soul a lordly pleasure- 
house, 
Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. 
I said, ' O Soul, make merry and 
carouse, 
Dear soul, for all is well.' 

A huge crag-platform, smooth as 
burnish'd brass 
I chose. The ranged ramparts 
bright 
From level meadow-bases of deep 
grass 
Suddenly scaled the light. 

Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or 
shelf 
The rock rose clear, or winding 
stair. 
My sou! would live alone unto herself 
In her high palace there. 



Aorld runs 
;aid, 



whirls, his sted- 



And ' while the i 
round,' I .' 
' Reign thou a 
Still as, while S; 
fast shade 
Sleeps on his luminous ring.' 
To which my soul made answe 
readily : 
'Trust me, in bliss I shall abide 
In this great mansion, that is built fo 



So royal-rich and wide.' 



Four courts I made. East, West and 
South and North, 
each a squared lawn, wherefrom 




The golden gorge of dragons spou 
" forth 
A flood of fountain-foam. 

And round the cool green ( 
ran a row 
Of cloisters, bianch'd like mighty 
woods, 
Echoing all night to that sonorous flow 
Of spouted fountain-floods. 

And round the roofs a gilded gallery 
That lent broad verge to distant 
lands. 
Far as the wild swan wings, to where 
the sky 
Dipt down to sea and sands. 

From those four jets four currents in 
one swell 
Across the mountain streani'd 

In misty folds, that floating as they 



fell 



a torrent-bow. 



And high on every peak a s 

seeni'd 

To hang on tiptoe, tossing up 

A cloud of incense of all odor ste 

From out a golden cup. 

So that she thought, 'And who 

gaze upon 

My palace with unblinded eyes 

While this great bow will waver i 

sun, 

."Xnd that sweet incense rise ? 



For that sweet incense rose and never 
fail'd, 
And, while day sank or mounted 
higher. 
The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd. 
Burnt like a fringe of fire. 

Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd 
and traced. 
Would seem slow-flam 



From shadow'd grots of arches 
laced. 
And tipt with frost-like spires. 





lite Palace ,>/ Art. 



Full of long-sounding corridors it was, 

That over-vaulted grateful gloom, 
Thro' which the livelong day my soul 
did pass. 
Well-pleased, from room to room. 

Full of great rooms and small the 

palace stood. 

All various, each a perfect whole 

From living Nature, fit for every mood 

And change of my still soul. 

For some were liung with arras green 

Showilig a gaudy summer-morn, 
Where with puff'd cheek the belted 
hunter blew 
His wreathed bugle-horn. 

One seem'd all dark and red — a tract 
of sand, 
And some one pacing there alone. 
Who paced for ever in a glimmering 
land. 
Lit with a low large moon. 



One showV 



them climb and 



You seem'd 
fall 
And roar rock-thwarted under bell 



And one, a full-fed river winding slow 

By herds upon an endless plain. 
The ragged rims of ihunder brooding 
low, 
With shadow-streaks of rain. 

.^nd one, the reapers at their sultry 
toil. 
In front they bound the sheaves. 
Behind 
Were realms of upland, prodigal in 
oil. 
And hoary to the wind. 

And one a foreground black with 





Beyond, a line of heights, and 

All barrVl with long white cloud the 
scornful crags. 
And highest, snow and fire. 

And one, an English home — gray twi- 
light pour'd 
On dewy jiastures, dewy trees, 
Softer than sleep — all things in order 
stored, 
.A haunt of ancient Peace. 

Nor these alone, but every landscape 
fair, 
As fit for every mood of mind, 
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, 

.\ot less than truth design'd. 



Or the maid-mother by a crucifix. 

In tracts of ])asture sunny-warm. 
Beneath branch-work of costly sar- 

Sat smiling, babe in arm. 

Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea, 
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair 
Wound with white roses, slept St. 
Cecily; 
An angel look'd at her. 

Or thronging all one porch of Paradise 

A group of Ilouris bow'd to see 
The dying Islamite, with hands and 

That said. We wait for thee. 

Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded 

In some fair space of shiping greois 
Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, 

And watch'd by weeping ipieens. 



) list a foot-fall, ere he saw 
wood-nvmph, stav'd the 
nian king to heai' 
Of wisdom and of law. 





■ fann'd with spice. 



Or sweet Europa's mantle blew 
unclasp'd, 
From off her shoulder backward 
borne : 
From one hand droop'd a crocus ; one 
hand grasp'd 
The mild bull's golden horn. 

Or else flush'd Ganymede, his rosy 
thigh 
Half-buried in the Eagle's down, 
Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky 
Above the pillar'd town. 

Nor these alone : but every legend fair 
Which the supreme Caucasian mind 
Carved out of Nature for itself, was 
there, 
Not less than life, design'd. 



The 



Mo 



e towers I placed great 
that swung. 



ed of then 
sound ; 
And with choice paintings of ' 
I hung 
The royal dais round. 



For there was Mil 



ike a seraph 



And there the world-worn Dante 
grasp'd his song. 
And somewhat grimly smiled 

And there the Ionian father of the 

A million wrinkles carved his skin ; 
A hundred winters snow'd upon his 

From cheek and throat and chii 

, the fair hall-ceiling stately-si 
arch high up did lift, 




Below was all mosaic choicely pla 
With cycles of the human tale 
Of this wide world, the times of every 
land 
So wrought, they will not fail. 

The people here, a beast of burden 

slow, 

Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads 

and stings ; 

Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro 

The heads and crowns of kings ; 

Here rose, an athlete, strong to break 
or bind 
All force in bonds that might endure. 
And here once more like some sick 
man declined. 
And trusted any cure. 

But over these she trod : and those 
great bells 
Began to chime. She took her 
throne : 
She .'iat betwixt the shining Oriels, 
To sing her songs alone. 

And thro' the topmost Oriels' colored 

Two godlike faces gazed below ; 
Plato the wise, and large-brow'd 
Verulam, 
The first of those who know. 

And all those names, that in their 
motion were 
Full-welling fountain-heads of 
change. 
Betwixt the slender shafts were 
binzon'd fair 

mge: 



Thro' which the liglits, rose, amber, 
emerald, blue, 
Flush'd in her temples and her 
eyes. 
And from her lips, as morn from 
Memnon, drew 
Rivers of melodies. 





The Palace of Art. 



No nightingale delighteth to prolong 

Her low preamble all alone, 
More than my soul to hear her echo'd 



Singins; and murmuring in her feast- 
ful mirth, 
Joying to feel herself alive. 
Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible 
earth. 
Lord of the senses five ; 



Communing with herself : ' All these 

And let the world have peace or 

'Tis one to me.' She — when young 
night divine 
Crown'd dying day with stars, 

Making sweet close of his delicious 

Lit light in wreaths and anadems. 
And pure quintessences of precious 

In hoUow'd moons of gems, 

To mimic heaven ; and clapt her 
hands and cried, 
' I marvel if my still delight 
In this great house so roval-rich, and 
wide. 
Be flatter'd to the height. 

•O all things fair to sate my various 

shapes and hues that please me 

well ! 
O silent faces of the Great and Wise, 
My Gods, with whom I dwell ! 

' O God-like isolation which art mine, 

1 can but count thee perfect gain. 
What time I watch the darkening 

droves of swine 
That range on yonder plain. 

filthy sloughs they roll a prurient 




They graze and wallow, breed and 
sleep ; 




uld she 



And oft some brainl 
And drives them 



Then of the moral instinct ' 

And of the rising from the dead, 
As hers by right of full-accomplish'd 
Fate; 
And at the last she said : 

' I take possession of man's mind and 
deed. 
I care not what the sects may 
brawl. 
I sit as God holding no form of creed, 
But contemplating all.' 



Full oft the riddle of the 



And : 



ellectual throne. 



And so she throve and prosper'd : so 

three years 

She prosper'd: on the fourth she fell, 

Like Herod, when the shout was in 

his ears. 

Struck thro' with pangs of hell. 

Lest she should fail and perish utterly, 

God, before whom ever lie bare 

The abysmal deeps of Personality, 

Plagued her with sore despair. 

When she would think, where'er she 

turn'd her sight 

The airy hand confusion wrought. 

Wrote, 'Mene, mene,' and divided 

quite 

The kingdom of her thought. 

Deep dread and loathing of her soli- 
tude 
Fell on her, from which mood ' 
born 
Scorn of herself ; again, from 
that mood 
Laughter at her self-scorn. 
























^r^ 1 1-^ r 1 1 nr 


1 




. 


■ 24 T/ie Palace of Art. 


What! is not this my place of 


Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, 




-■ 


strength,' she said, 


Lay there exiled from eternal God, 


. 








' My spacious mansion built for me, 


Lost to her place and name ; 








t- 


5 Whereof the strong foundation-stones 


Ob 








were laid 


And death and life she hated equally, 








Since my first memory ? ' 


And nothing saw, for her despair. 
But dreadful time, dreadful eternitv. 








But in dark corners of her palace 


No comfort anywhere ; 








stood 










Uncertain shapes ; and unawares 


Remaining utterlv confused with 








On white-eyed phantasms weei)ing 


fears. 








tears of blood, 


And ever worse with growing time. 








And horrible nightmares, 


And ever unrelieved by dismal tears, 
And all alone in crime : 








And hollow shades enclosing hearts 










of flame. 


Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt 








And, with dim fretted foreheads all. 


round 








On corpses three-nionths-old at noon 


With blackness as a solid wall". 








she came. 


Far off she seem'd to hear the dully 








That stood against the wall. 


sound 
Of human footsteps fall. 








A spot of dull stagnation, without 










light 


As in strange lands a traveller walk- 








Or power of movement, seem'd my 


ing slow. 








soul. 


In doubt and great perplexitv, 








'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite 


A little before moon-rise hears the 








Making for one sure goal. 


low 

Moan of an unknown sea ; 








A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars 










of sand. 


And knows not if it be thunder, or a 








Left on the shore ; that hears all 


sound 








night 


Of rocks thrown down, or one deep 








The plunging seas draw backward 


cry 








from the land 


Of great wild beasts ; then thinketh. 








Their moon-led waters white. 


' I have found 
A new land, but I die.' 








A star that with the choral starry dance 










Join'd not, but stood, and standing 


She howl'd aloud. ' I am on fire with- 








saw 


in. 








The hollow orb of moving Circum- 


There comes no murmur of reply. 


i 






stance 


What is it that will take awav mv sin. 








Roll'd round by one fix'd law. 


And save me lest I die?' ' 








Back on herself her serpent pride had 


So when four years were wholly 


1 






curl'd. 


finished. 








■No voice,' she shriek'd in that 


She threw her rova! robes away. 


1 






lone hall. 


• Make me a cottage in the vale,' she 


1 




' 


^ ' No voice breaks thro' the stillness of 


said, T 


1 




. 


this world : 


' Where I may mourn and pray. 




i 






One deep, deep silence all ! ' 


Yet mill not down mv palace towers, 




1 






She, mouldering with the dull earth's 


that are 








^ 


mouldering sod, 
J^ 1 \ I 


So lightly, beautifully built: 


] 






; 1 1 tEV 


I 














Ladv Clara Vere dc Veie. 



Pevchance I ma)- leturn with others 
there 
When I have purged my guilt.' 

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. 

Ladv Clara Vere de Vere, 

Of me yuii shall not win renown: 

You thought to break a country heart 
For pastime, ere you went to town. 

At me you smiled, but unbeguiled 
I saw the snare, and I retired : 

The daughter of a hundred Earls, 
You are not one to be desired. 

Ladv Clara Vere de Vere, 

I know you proud to bear your name. 
Your jiride is vet no mate for mine, 

Too proud to care from whence 
I came. 
Nor would I break for your sweet sake 

A heart that doats on truer charms. 
A simple maiden in her flower 

Is worth a hundred coatsof-arms. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Some meeker pupil you must find. 
For were yon queen of all that is, 

I could not stoop to such a mind. 
You sought to prove how I could love, 

.•\nd my disdain is my reply. 
The lion on your old stone gates 

Is not more cold to you than I. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

You put strange memories in my 
head. 
Not thrice vour branching limes have 
blowli 

Since I beheld voung Laurence dead. 
Oh your sweet eves, vour low replies : 

A great enchantress vou mav be ; 
Hut there was that across his throat • 

Which you had hardly cared to see. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

When thus he met his mother's view, 
She had the passions of her kind, 




She spake some 
you. 
ndeed I heard one bitter word 

That scarce is fit for you to hear 
ler manners had not that repose 

Which stamps the caste of Vere 




.adv C 



ra Vere de Vere, 

itands a spectre in your hall ; 



You held your course without remorse. 
To make him trust his modest worth. 

And, last, you fi.x'd a vacant stare, 
And slew him with your noble birth. 

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 

From yon blue heavens above us 
bent 
The gardener Adam and his wife 

Smile at the claims of long descent. 
Howe'er it be, it seeins to me, 

'Tis only noble to be good. 
Kind hearts are more than coronets. 

And simple faith than Norman 
blood. 

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere, 
You pine among your halls and 
towers : 
The languid light of your proud eyes 

Is wearied of the rolling hours. 
In glowing health, with boundless 
wealth, 
But sickening of a vague disease. 
You know so ill to deal with time, 
You needs must play such pranks 
as these. 

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, 

If time be heavy on your hands, 
Are there no beggars at your gate. 

Nor any poor about your lands.' 
Oh ! teach the orphan-bov to read. 

Or teach the orjihan-girl to sew, 
Prav Heaven for a human heart. 

And let the foolish 





The May Queen. 




THE MAY QUEEN. 

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear ; 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year; 
Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day ; 
For I'm to be Queeir o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the M 

There's niauv a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mil 

There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline : 

But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, 

So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Ma 



I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, 

If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break : 

But I must gather knots of flowers, and' buds and garlands gay. 

For I'm to be Queen u' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Ma 

As I came up the 
But Robin leanin 
He thought of th: 
But I'm to be Qt 

He thought I wa; 
And I ran bv him 
They call me cru 
For 'I'm to be Qii 



valley whom think ye should I see, 
g on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree ? 



' gave him yesterday, 

, I'm to be Queen o' the Ma 



ghost, mother, for " 



-hearted, but 



ther, I'm to be Qii 



o' the May. 



They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be : 

They say his heart is breaking, mother— what is that to me? 

There's manv a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day. 

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green. 

And vou'll be the're, too, mother, to see me made the Queen ; 

For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away, 

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers. 
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; 
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, 



And the happy i 



they ] 




There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong 

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the M 

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still. 

And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill. 

And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play. 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 





So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year : 
To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day, 
For I'm to be Queeu o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 



NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 

If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear, 

For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. 

It is the last New-year that I shall ever see. 

Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me. 

To-night I saw the sun set : he set and left behind 
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind; 
And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see 
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. 

Last May we made a crown of flowers : we had a merry day ; 
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May; 
And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse, 
Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimuey-tops. 

There's not a flower on all the hills : the fro.st is on the pane : 
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come agani : 
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high : 
I long to see a flower so before tiie day I die. 

The building rook '11 caw from the windy tall elm-tree, 

And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, 

And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave, 

But I shall lie alone, mother, withhi the mouldering grave. 



Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine. 
In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine. 
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill. 
When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is si 




When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light 
You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night ; 
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool 
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. 

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, 
And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowlv laid. 
I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass, 
feet above my head in the long and pleasant 



t grass 



I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now ; 
You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go ; 
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild. 
You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child 






I can I'll come again, mother, from out my restiiig-rj' -.re; 
Tho' vou'U not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face 
Tho' 1 cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you say, 
And be often, dften with you when you think I'm far away 

Goodnight, goodnight, when I have said goodnight fore' 
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door; 
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing greer 
She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. 

She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor : 
Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall never garden more : 
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I set 
About the parlor-window and the box of mignonette. 

Goodnight, sweet mother : call me before the day is born. 
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; 
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, 
So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. 



CONCLUSION. 

I THOUGHT to pass awav before, and yet alive I am; 
And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. 
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year ! 
To die-before the .snowdrop came, and now the violet's here. 

O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies. 
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise, 
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, 
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. 

It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, 
And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done ! 
But still I think it can't be long before I find release; 
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. 

O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair! 
And blessings on his whole lifelong, until he meet me there! 
O blessings on his kindlv heart and on his silver head! 
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. 

He taught me all the mercv. for he show'd me all the sin. 
Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in: 
Nor would I now be well, mother, again if that could be, 
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 

hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat. 
There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet : 
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine. 
And Effie on the other side, and 1 will tell ihc sign. 






'In yonder chair i see him siT."—fi'gi- 




The Lotiis-Eaters. 




All in the wild Maicli-moniing I heard the angels call ; 
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; 
The trees bi-gaii to whisper, and the wind began to roll. 
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. 

For lying broad awake I thonght of you and Effie dear; 
1 saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; 
With all my strength I pray'd lor both, and so I felt resign'd 
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. 

I thought that it vv.as fancy, and I listen'd in ray bed, 
And then did something speak to me — I know not what was said ; 
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, 
And up the valley came again the music on the wind. 

But you were sleeping ; and I said, ' It's not for them : it's mine.' 
And if it come three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. 
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars. 
Then seem'd to go right u|> to Heaven and die among the stars. 



So now 
The bless 
And for ii 
But, Efifie 



think my time is near. 



kno 



iideed, I care not if I go to-day, 

ust comfort licr when I am past away. 



rd, and tell him not to fret ; 

II I, would make him happy yet. 



And say to Robin a kind ■ 

There's many a worthier t 

If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been hisvvffe; 

But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. 

O look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow ; 
He shines up.m a hundred fields, and all of them I know. 
And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine- 
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. 



'-I w\\\ l!i>-,i- jii-i s,iiil-i and true — 

.li we should .m ? why make we such ado.' 

er, all in a blessed home — 
little while till you and Eiilie come— 
;lu of God, as I lie upon your breast — 
isc from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 



O sweet 


•,, 




The v.>„ 




,li.,i 


For eve, 






And wh. 


I 


. lii,' 


For eve. 


^ 


idfo 


And the 


>• 


to wa 


To lie w 


il 


in ihc 


And the 


w 


eked 



THE LOTO.S-EATERS. 

and pointed 

will roll us 

he aflcnuon they came unto a land 



■Courage!' h( 

toward th 

■ rhis mountinc 




Breathing like one that hath a wear 

dream. 
Full-faced above the valley stood the 

moon ; 





Choric Song. 



• And like a downward smoke, the slen- 
der stream 
Along the cliff to fall and pause and 
fall did seem. 



i I some, like a down- 

Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, 

did go ; 
And some thro' wavering lights and 

shadows broke, 
//Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam 

below. 
They saw the gleaming river seaward 

flow 
From the inner land : far off, three 
mouiitain-tops, 
"Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, 
.Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with 

showery drops, 
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the 

woven copse. 



:ie charmed sunset 

adown 
I the red West : thro'n 

the dale 



inger'd low 
untain clefts 



Borde 



ith pall 
vale 



And meadow, set with slender galin- 
gale ; 

A land where all things always seem d 
the same ! 

.And round about the keel with faces 
pale, 

Dark faces pale against that rosy flame. 

The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos- 
eaters came. 

1 '.ranches they bore of that enchanted 



Laden with flower and fruit, whereof 

they gave 
To each, but whoso did receive of 

them, 
And taste, to him the gushing of the 


Far 


fa" away di 


1 seem to 


mourn and 


On 


alien shore 


; and if 


his fellow 



His voice was thin, as voices from the 

grave ; 
And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all 

awake. 
And music in his ears his beating 

heart did make. 




They sat them down upon 


the yellow 


Between the sun and moo 


1 upon the 



shore ; 

JAnd sweet it was to dream of Father- 

( land, 

jOf child, and wife, and slave ; but ever- 
more 

(Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the 

IWeary the wandering fields of barren 

foam. 
Then some one said, ' We will return 

And all at once they sang, ' Our island 

home 
Is far beyond the wave-; we will no 

longer roam.' 

CHORIC .SONG. 

I. 

There is sweet music here that softer 

falls 
Than petals from blown roses on the 

grass, . 
Or night-dews on still waters between 

walls 
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming 

pass i 
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, 
I Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes; 
Music that brings sweet sleep down 

from the blissful skies. 
Here are cool mosses deep, - 
And thro' the moss the ivies creep, 
And in the stream the long-leaved 

flowers weep. 
And from the craggy ledge the poppy 

hangs in sleep. 

Why are we weigh'd upon with h 





Choric Song. 



And utterly consumed with sharp 

distress, 
While all things else have rest from 

All things have rest: why should we 

toil alone, 
We only toil, who are the first of 

things. 
And make perpetual moan. 
Still from one sorrow to another 

thrown : 
Nor ever fold our wings, 
And cease from wanderings. 
Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy 

balm ; 
Nor barken what the inner spirit sings, 
' There is no joy but calm ! ' 
Why should we only toil, the roof and 

crown of things ? 



Lo ! in the middle of the wood. 

The folded leaf is woo'd from out the 

bud 
With winds upon the branch, and 

there 
Grows green and broad, and takes no 

care, 
Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon 
Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow 
Kails, and floats adown the air. 
Lo ! sweeten'd with the summer light. 
The full-juiced apple, waxing over- 




Drops 
All its 
The (In 
Ripen. 



Portions and parcels of the dreadful 

Let us alone. What pleasure can we 

have 

To war with evil ? Is there any peace 
In ever climbing up the climbing 

wave ? 
All things have rest, and ripen toward 

the grave 
In silence ; ripen, fall and cease : 
Give us long rest or death, dark death, 

or dreamful ease. 



How sweet it were, hearing the down- 
ward stream, 
With half-shut eyes ever to seem 
Falling asleep in a half-dream I 
To dream and dream, like yonder 

amber light. 
Which will not leave the myrrh-bush 

on the height ; 
To hear each other's whis]:)er'd speech ; 
Jiating the Lotos day by da;-, 
/To watch the crisping 'ripples on the 
beach, 
And tender curving lines of creamy 

spray ; 
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 
To the influence ofjnild-niinded mel- 
ancholy ; 
To muse and brood and live again in 

memory. 
With those old faces of our infancy 
Heap'd over with a mound of grass. 
Two haudfuls of white dust, shut in an 
urn of brass ! 



(Hateful is the d.irk-blue sky, \ 
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 
Death is the end of life; ah, why 
.Shocid life all labor be .' , 

Let us alone. Time driveth om 

fast. 
And in a little while ourlips are dumb. 
Let us alone. What is it that will last ? 
All tilings are taken from us, and 
become 



Dear 



the 



y of our wedded 
embraces of our 
ars: but all hath 



And dear th 

wives 
And their warm teai 

suffer'd change : 
For surely now our household hearths 

are cold : 
Our sons inherit us : onr looks are 

strange : 
And we should come like ghosts to 

trouble joy. 
Or else the island princes over-bold 





Choric Song. 



lave ■ eat our substance, and the 

minstrel sings 
icfore them of the ten years' war in 
Troy, 
And our great deeds, as haU-forgotten 

things. 
Is there confusion in the little isle? 
Let what is broken so remain. 
The God.- are hard to reconcile : 
•Tis hard to settle order once again. 
'There is confusion worse than death, 
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain. 
Long labor unto aged breath, 
Sore task to hearts worn out by many 



And eyes grown dii 
the pilot-stars 



th gazing on 



nth and 



lint, propt on beds of 

moly. 
How sweet (while warm airs lull us, 

blowing lowlv) 
With haK-dro]it eyelid still, 
Beneath a heaven dark and holy. 
To watch the long bright river draw- 

ing slowly 
His waters from the purple hill — 
'lo hear the dewy echoes calling 
PVom cave to cave thro' the thick- 



^w 



ned 



atch the emerald-color'd water 

vov'n acanthus-wreatly 

he far-off spark- 

tretch'd out 



ji hro many a vvi 
^ divine! 

Onlv to hear and 



beneath the pine. 



The Lotos 

peak : 
The Lotos 



All da 



; below the barren 
by every winding 



i- the wind breathes low with 

mellower tone .- 
Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone 
Round and round the spicy downs the 

yellow Lotos-dust is blown. 





have had enough of action, and of 

motion we, 
I'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, 

when the surge was seething 



free, 
Where the wallowi 

his foam-fou 
Let us swear an oai 



n the sea. 
keep it w 



an equal mind. 
In the hollow Lotos-land to live and 

lie reclined 
On the hills like Gods together, care- 
less of mankind. 
For they lie beside their nectar, and 

the bolts are hurl'd 
Far below them in the valleys, and the 

clouds are lightly curl'd 
Round their golden houses, girdled 

with the gleaming world : 
Where they smile in secret, looking 

over wasted lands, 
might and famine, pla.i;ue and earth- 
quake, roaring deeps and fiery 

sands, 
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, 

and sinking ships, and praving 

hands. 
But they smile, they find a music 

centred in a doleful song 
Steaming up, a lamentation and an 

ancient talc of wrong. 
Like a tale of little meaning tho' the 

Chanted from an ill-used race of men 

that cleave the soil. 
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest 

with enduring toil. 
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and 

wine and oil ; 
Till they perish and they suffer— some, 

'lis whisper'd — down in hell 
Suffer endless anguish, others in 

Elysian valleys dwell. 
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of 

asphodel. 
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet 

than toil, the shore 
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, 

wind and wave and oar ; 
Oh rest ye, brother mariners, we will 

not wander more. 





^■^ 



A Dream of Fair Women. 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 

I REAI>, before my eyelids dropt their 
• sliade, 
' The Legend of Good Women; long 
ago 
Sung by the morning star of song, who 
made 
His music heard below; 

Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose 

Preluded those melodious bursts 
that till 
The spacious times of great Elizabeth 
With sounds that echo still. 

And, for a while, the knowledge of 
his art 
Held me above the subject, as 
strong gales 
Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho' 
my heart, 
Brimful of those wild tales. 

Charged both mine eyes with tears. 
In every land 

I saw, wherever light illumineth, 
Aleauty and anguish walking hand in 
(_ hand ] 

The downward slope to death. -' 

Those far-renowned brides of ancient 

burn- 
ing stars, 
And I heard sounds of insult, shame, 

.■Vnd trumpets blown for wars ; 

.\ud clattering flints batter'd with 
clanging hoofs ; 
And I saw crowds in column'd sanc- 
tuaries ; 
And forms that pass'd at windows and 

Of marble palaces ; 

Corpses across the threshold : heroes 
tall 

Dislodging pinnacle and parapet 
Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall ; 

Lances in ambush set : 





And high shrine-doors burst th 
with heated blasts 
That run before the flutter 
tongues of fire ; 
White surf wind-scatter'd over s: 
and masts. 
And ever climbing higher ; 

Squadrons and squares of men in \ 
zen plates, 
Scaffolds, still sheets of water, div 

Ranges of glimmering vaults with i: 
grates. 
And hush'd seraglios. 



So shape chased shape as swift as, 
when to land 
Bluster the winds and tides the self- 
same way. 
Crisp foam-flaUes scud along the level 
sand, 
Torn from the fringe of spray» 

I started once,or seem'd to start in pain, 
Resolved on noble things, and 

strove to speak, 
J^s when a great thought strikes along 

the brain, 
;■ And flushes all the cheek. 



And once m 

down 

A cavalier 

That bore ; 

town ; 

And then, 



ifted to hew 



roni off his saddle-bow, 
lady from a leaguer'd 



ot how, 
by Am 



All those sharp fancis 
lajising thought 
Stream'd onward, lost their edges, 
and did creep 
Roll'd on each other, rounded, 
smooth'd, and brought 
Into the gulfs of sleep. 



nder'd 



At last methought that I had i 
far 
In an old wood: fresh-wash'd 
coolest dew 
The maiden splendors of the mprn- 
ing star 
Shook in the stedfast blue. 





A Dream of Fair Women. 



Enormous elm-tree-boles did stoop 
and lean 
Upon the dusky brushwood under- 



Their broad < 

with cl 

New from i 

The dim red i 



ed branches, fledged 
St green, 
Iken sheath. 

n had died, her jour- 



ney done, 
And with dead lips smiled at the 
twilight plain, 
Ilalf-fall'n across the threshold of the 




rhere was no motion i 
dead air. 
Not any song of bird 



e dumb 

DUlul of 



Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre 
Is not so deadly still 

As that wide forest. Growths of jas- 
mine turn'd 
Their humid arms festooning tree 



And at the root thro 

burn'd 

The red anemone 


lusl 


green grasses 


I- knew the flowers, 
I knew 
The tearful glimr 


I ki 


ew the leaves, 
of the languid 


dawn 
On those long, rank 
drench'd in d 


,dar 


k wood-walks 


I,ea 


ning from la« 


n to 


lawn. 


The 


smell of viole 


ts. 


lidden in the 


Pol 
The 

Joy 


r'd back into my e 
frame 

imes when I rem 
been 
ful and free from 1 


mpty soul and 
mber to have 
lame. 


And f 
Th 

' Pass 


rom within me 
iU'd thro' mi. 
blissful clime 
freely thro': 


a clear undertone 
e ears in that un- 

the wood is all 


Un 


ii llie end of t 


me 





At length I saw a lady within call, 
Stiller than chisell'd marble, stand- 
ing there ; 

A daughter of the gods, divinely tall. 
And most divinely fair. 

Her loveliness with shame and with 
surprise 
Froze my swift speech : she turning 
on my face 
■fhe star-like sorrows of immortal eye§^ 
Spoke slowly in her place. 

' I had great beauty : ask thou not my 
name : 
No one can be more wise than des- 
tiny. 
Manv drew swords and died. 
Where'er I came 
I brought calamity.' 

'No marvel, sovereign lady; in fair 
field 
Myself for such a face had boldly 
died,' 
I answer'd free; and turning I 
appeal 'd 
To one that stood beside. 

But she, with sick and scornful looks 
averse. 
To her full height her stalely stat- 
ure draws ; 
' My youth,' she said, ' was blasted 
with a curse : 
This woman was the cause. 

' I was cut off from hope in that sad 

those 

face ; 



Which men call'd Auli: 
iron years : 
My father held his hand upo 
I, blinded with my tears. 



' Still strove to speak: my voice was 
thick with sighs 
As in a dream. Dimly I could descrv 
The stern black-bearded kings with 
wolfish eyes. 
Waiting to see me die. 



'The high 





A Dream of Fair Women 



pies, wavei'd, 
;r'd at the vic- 

vy-plung- 
oll'd me 



The crowds, the tt 
and the shoie ; 
The bright death qu 
tim's throat ; 

Touch'd ; and I knew no i 

Whereto the other with a ( 
brow : 
M would the white cold he; 

Whirl'd °by the wind, had 
deep below. 
Then when I left my honit 



Her slow full words sank thro' the si- 
lence drear, 
As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping 
sea : 
Sudden I heard a voice that cried, 
' Come here. 
That I may look on thee.' 

I turning saw, throned on a flowery 

Onu sitting on a crimson scarf un- 

A qnetn, with swarthy cheeks and 
bold black eyes. 
Brow-bound with burning gold. 

She, flashing forth a haughty smile, 
began : 
' I govern'd men by change, and so 
I sway'd 
All moods. 'Tis long since I have 
seen a man. 
Once, like the moon, I made 

' The ever-shifting currents of the 

According to my huinor ebb and 

flow. 
I have no men to govern in this 

wood : 
That makes my only woe. 

' Nay — yet it chafes me that I could 
not bend 
One will ; nor tame and tutor with 
mine eye 
That dull cold-blooded Cssar. 
Prythee, friend, 
Where is Mark Antony? 





■P'he man, n,y 
rode subli 
On Fortune's necK :i' 
bv C;od : ' 



Wt 



and lit 
Lamjis which ou 
O my life 
In Egypt! O the dalliance and the wit. 
The flattery and the strife, 

' And the wild kiss, when fresh from 

My Hercules, my Roman Antony, 
My mailed Bacchus leapt into my 
arms. 
Contented there to die ! 

' And there he died ■ and when I heard 
my name 
Sigh'd forth with life I would not 
brook my fear 
Of the other : with a worm I balk'd 
his fame. 
What else was left ? look here!' 

(With that she tore her robe apart, 
and half 
The |iolish'd argent of her breast to 
sight 
Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with 
a laugh. 
Showing the aspick's bite.) 

' I died a Queen. The Roman soldier 

Me lying dead, my crown about my 
brows, 
A name for ever ! — lying robed and 
crown'd. 
Worthy a Roman spouse.' 

Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest 
range 
Struck by all passion, did fall down 
and glance 
From tone to tone, and glided thro' 
all change 
Of liveliest utterance. 





A Dream of Fair Women 



When she made pause I knew not for 
delight ; 
Because with sudden motion from 
the ground 
She raised her piercing orbs, and 
fill'd with light 
The interval of sound. 

Still with their fires Love tipt his 
keeuest darts; 
As once they drew into two burn- 
All beams of Love, melting the mighty 
hearts 
Of captains and of kings. 

Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I 
heard 
A noise of some one coming thro' 
the lawn. 
And singing clearer than the crested 
bad 
That claps his wings at dawn. 

' The torrent brooks of hallow'd Israel 
From craggy hollows pouring, late 
and soon, 
Sound all night long, in falling thro' 
the dell. 
Far-heard beneath the moon. 

' The balmv moon of blessed Israel 
Floods all the deep-blue gloom with 
beams divine : 
All night the splinter'd crags that wall 
the dell 
With spires of silver shine. 

As one that museth where broad sun- 

The lawn by some cathedral, thro' 
the door 
Hearing the holy organ rolling waves 
Of sound on roof and floor 



A maiden pure ; as when she wen 
along 

d gate with wel- 

ith song. 



From Mizpeh's towi 
come light. 
With timbrel and 




I sung, 



Within, and anth 
and tied 
To where he stands,- 
when that flow 
Of music left the lips of her tl 
To save her father's vow ; 




charm'd 

stood I, 

died 



My words leapt forth : ' Heaven heads 

the count of crimes 
With that wild oath.' She render'd 

answer high: 
* Not so, nor once alone ; a thousand 

I would be born and die. 

' Single I grew, like some green plant, 

Creeps to the garden water-pipes 

beneath, 
Feeding the flower; but ere my flower 

to frnit 
Changed, I was ripe for death. 



f the 



rrior Gileadite, 



' My God, mv 

didmov 

Me from mv 


land, 
bliss 


my father— 
of life, that 


hese 
Na- 


Lower'd" softly with 


a threefold 


cord 


of love 
Down to a s 


lent g 


rave. 





'And I went mourning, "No fair He- 
brew boy 
Shall smile away my maiden blame 



Leav 



the dance and song, 



Leaving the olive-gardens far below. 
Leaving the promise of my bridal 
bower, 
I'he vallevs of grape-loaded vines that 
glow 
Beneath the battled tower. 



rhe light white cloud swam over us. 

Anon 
We heard the lion roaring from his 
den; 



the darken'd glen, 





A Dream of Fair Women. 



■ Saw God divide the night with flying 
flame, 
And thunder on the everlasting 



rd Him, for He spaUe. and gr 

became 
solemn scorn of ills. 



low beautiful a thnig it was i 
For God and for my sire ! 



: comforts me in t 

dwell, 
I'hat I subdued 



Because the kiss he gav 
Sweetens the spirit s 



thought to 
ny father's 
,ere I fell, 



Hew'd A 

A roe 

On Arnon i 



-itten that mv 
hip and thigh 



non unto Minneth 
face 
Glow'd, as I look'd 



her. 



.She lock'd her lips : she left me where 
I stood : 
' Glory to God,' she sang, and past 
afar, 
Thridding the sombre boskage of the 
wood. 
Toward the morning-star. 

Losing her carol I stood pensively. 
As one that from a casement leans 
his head. 
When midnight bells cease ringing 
suddenly, 
And the old year is dead. 

' Alas ! alas ! ' a low voice, full of care, 
Murmur'd beside me : ' Turn and 

look on me: 
am that Rosamond, whom men call 

fair, 
If what I was I be. 



Id T had been 
coarse and poor ! 




O me, that I should ever see the 

light ! 
'hose dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor 
Do hunt me, day and night.' 




and 1 



tears, fallen from hope 



To whom the Egyptian : ' O, you 

tamely died 1 
You should have clung to Fulvia's 

waist, and ihi ust 
The dagger thro' her side.' 

With that shar]) .sound the white 
dawn's creeping beams, 
Stol'n to my brain, dissolved the 

Of folded sleep. The captain of my 
dreams 
Ruled in the eastern sky. 

Morn broaden'd on the borders of the 
dark. 
Ere I saw her, who clasp'd in her 
last trance 
Her murder'd father's head, or Joan 
of Arc, 
A light of ancient France ; 

Or her who knew that Love can van- 
quish Death, 
Who kneeling, with one arm about 
her king. 

Drew forth the p^nson with her balmy 

Sweet as new buds in Spring. 

No memory labors longer from the 
deep 
Gold-mines of thought to lift the 
hidden ore 
That glimpses, moving up, than I 
from sleep 
To gather and tell o'er 

Each little sound and sight. With 

what dull pain 
Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to 

strike 
Into that wondrous track of dreams 





The Blackbird— The Death of the OH Ye 



vhen a soul laments, which hath 
been blest, 
Desiring what is mingled with past 

In yearnings that can never be exprest 
By signs or groans or tears ; 



ds, tho' culi'd with 

t, 

e the bitter of the 



Kecause all wi 
choicest ; 
Failing to g 
sweet. 

Wither beneath the palate, and thi 
heart 
Faints, faded by its heat. 



THE BLACKBIRD. 
O blackbird! sing me something 

While all the neighbors shoot thee 

round, 
I keep smooth plats of fruitful 

ground. 
Where thou may'st warble, eat and 

dwell. 

The espaliers and the standards all 
Are thine; the range of lawn and 

park : 
The unnetted black-hearts ripen 
dark, 
All thine, against the garden wall. 

Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring. 
Thy sole delight is, sitting still, 
Wi'th that gold dagger of thy bill 

To fret the summer jenneting. 

A golden bill ! the silver tongue. 
Cold February loved, is dry: 
Plenty corrupts the melody 

That made thee famous once, when 



ng: 



And in the sultry garden-squares, 
Now thy flute-notes are changed to 

coarse, 
I hear thee not at all, or hoarse 

As when a hawker hawks his wares. 





Take warning! he that will not sing 
While yon sun prospers in the bine. 
Shall sfng for want, ere leaves are 
new, 

Caught in the frozen palms of .Spring. 



THE DEATH OF THE OLD 
YEAR. 

FtJLL knee-deep lies the winter .snow. 
And the winter winds are wearily 
sighing : 
Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow. 
And tread softly and speak low. 
For the old year lies a-dying. 
Old year, you must not die ; 
You came to us so readily, 
You lived with us so steadily, 
Old year, you shall not die. 

He lieth still : he doth not move : 
He will not see the dawn of day. 
He hath no other life above. 
He gave me a friend, and a true true- 
love. 
And the New-year will take 'em away. 

Old year, you must not go; 

So long as you have been with us. 

Such joy as you have seen with 
us, 

Old year, you shall not go. 

He froth'd his bumpers to the brim ; 
A jollier year we shall not .see. 
But tho' his eyes are waxing dim. 
And tho' his foes speak ill of uim, 
He was a friend to me. 

Old year, you shall not die ; 

We did so laugh and cry with 
you, 

I've half a mind to die with you. 

Old year, if you must die. 

He was full of joke and jest, 
But all his merry quips are o'er. 
To see him die, across the waste 
His son and heir doth ride post-haste, 
But he'll be dead before. 

Every one for h; 

The night is starry and coli 
friend, 





The Death of the Old Year— To J. S. 



And the New-year blithe and 

bold, my friend, 
Comes up to take his own. 

How hard he breathes ! over the snow 
I heard just now the crowing cock. 
The shadows flicker to and fro : 
The cricket chirps : the light burns 

low: 
'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. 

Shake hands, before you die. 
Old year, we'll dearlv rue for you : 
What is it we can do for you .' 
Speak out before you die. 

His face is growing sharp and thin. 
Alack ! our friend is gone. 
Close up his eyes: tie up his chin : 
Step from the corpse, and let him in 
That standeth there alone. 

And waiteth at the door.' 

There's a new foot on the floor, mv 
friend, 

And a new face at the door, my 
friend, 

A new face at the door. 



TO J. S. 

The wind, that beats the 
blows 

More softly round the open wold. 
And gently comes the world to those 

That are cast in gentle mould. 

And me this knowledge bolder made, 

Or else I had not dared to flow- 
In these words toward you, and invade 
Even with a verse your holy woe. 

' Tis strange that those we lean on 
most. 
Those in whose laps our limbs 





This is the curse of time. Alas ! 

In grief I am not all unlearn'd ; 
Once thro' mine own doors Death did 
pass ; 

One went, who never hath 
return'd. 

He will not smile — not speak to me 
Once more. Two years his chair 

Emptv before us. That was he 

Without whose life I had not 
been. 

Your loss is rarer; for this star 

Rose with you thro' a little arc 

Of heaven, nor having wander'd far 
Shot on the sudden into dark. 

I knew your brother : his mute dust 
I honor and hisjiving worth: 

A man more pure and bold and just 
Was never born into the earth. 

I have not look'd upon vou nigh. 

Since that dear so'ul hath fall'n 
asleep. 

Great Nature is more wise than I : 
I will not tell you not to weep. 

And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew, 
Drawn from the spirit thro' the 
brain, 

I will not even preach to you, 

' Weep, weeping dulls the inward 



Let Grief be her own mistress still. 

She loveth her own anguish deep 
More than much pleasure. Let her 
will 

Be done — to weep or not to weep. 

I will not say, ' God's ordinance 

Of Death is blown in every wind ; ' 

For that is not a common chance 
That takes away a noble mind. 

His memory long will live alone 

In all our hearts, as mournful light 

That broods above the fallen sun. 
And dwells in heaven half the 
night. 





2'o J. S. — On a Mourner. 



1 solace ! Memory standing near 
Cast down her eyes, and in lier 
throat 
Her voice seeni'd distant, and a tear 
Dropt on the letters as I wrote. 

I wrote I know not what. In truth, 
How should I soothe you anyway. 

Who miss the brother of your youth? 
Yet something I did wish to say : 

For he too was a friend to me : 

Both are my friends, and my true 
breast 

Bleedeth for both ; yet it may be 
That only silence suiteth best. 

Words weaker than your grief would 

Grief more. 'Twere better I 

should cease 
Although myself could almost take 
The place of him that sleeps in 

peace. 

Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace : 
Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul. 

While the stars burn, the moons in- 
crease, 
And the great ages onward roll. 

Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. 
Nothing comes to thee new or 
strange. 
Sleep full of rest from head to feet ; 
Lie still, dry dust, secure of 
change. 



ON A MOURNER. 



Nature, so far as in her lies, 
Imitates God, and turns her face 

To every land beneath the skies. 
Counts nothing that she meets wi 





nd loves in every place 



ly quickset-screens, 
the purple lilac ripe, 



Steps from her 
'Ihe swamp, w 



t""6 i."..i^v.. 

With moss and braided 



And on thy heart a finger lays, 

Saying, ' Beat quicker, for the lime 

Is pleasant, and the woods and ways 
Are pleasant, and the beech and 

lime 
Put forth and feel a gladder clime.' 



And murmurs of a deeper voice, 

Going before to some far shrine. 
Teach that sick heart the stronger 
choice. 
Till all thy life one way incline 
With one wide Will that closes 
thine. 



And when the zoning eve has died 
Where yon dark valleys wind for- 
lorn. 
Come Hope and Memory, spouse and 
bride. 
From out the borders of the morn, 
With that fair child betwi.xt them 



And when no mortal motion jars 
The blackness round the tombing 
sod. 
Thro' silence and the trembling stars 
Comes Faith from tracts no feet 

have trod. 
And Virtue, like a hoivsehold god 



Promismg empire ; such as those 

Once heard at dead of night to greet 
Troy's wandering prince, so that he 



With sacrifice, while all the fleet 
Had rest by stony hills of Crete. 





Lm'c Thou thy Land. 



An. 



ask me, why, iho' ill at ease, 
Within this region I subsist, 
Whose spirits falter in the mist, 

languish for the purple seas. 



It is the land that freemen till. 

That sober-suited Freedom chose. 
The land, where girt with friends 
or foes 

A man may speak the thing he will ; 

A land of settled government, 

A land of just and old renown, 
Where Freedoin slowly broadens 

From precedent to precedent: 

Where faction seldom gathers head. 
But by degrees to fullness 

wrought. 
The strength of some diffusive 
thought 
Hath time and space to work and 
spread. 

Should banded unions persecute 
Opinion, and induce a time 
When single thought is civil 
crime. 

And individual freedom mute; 



Tho' Power should make from land to 
land 
The name of Britain trebly great — 
Tho' every channel of the State 

Should fill and choke with golden 



Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth. 
Wild wind ! I seek a warmer sky. 
And I will see before I die 

The palms and temples of the South. 



Ok old sat Freedom on the heights, 
The thunders breaking at her feet : 

.Above her shook the starry lights: 
She heard the torrents meet. 

There in her place she did rejoice, 
Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind. 





Then stept she down thro' town and 
field 

To mingle with the human race, 
And part by part to men reveal'd 

The fullness of her face — 

Grave mother of majestic works. 

From her isle-altar gazing down, 
Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks. 

And, King-like, wears the crown : 



r open eyes desire the truth. 

The wisdom of a thousand years 
n them. May perpetual youth 

Keep dry their light from tears ; 



That her fair fom 

shine. 

Make bright o 

our dreams, 

Turning to scorn with lips divine 

The falsehood of extremes ! 



tand and 
and light 



Love thou thy land, with love far- 
brought 
From out the storied Past, and 

used 
Within thePresent, but transfused 
Thro' future time by power of thought. 

True love turn'd round on fixed poles. 
Love, that endures not sordid ends. 
For English natures, freemen, 
friends. 

Thy brothers and immortal souls. 

But pamper not a hasty time. 
Nor feed with crude imaginings 
The herd, wild hearts and feeble 
wings 

That every sophister can lime. 



Deliver not the tasks of might 
To weakness, neither hide the ray 
From those, not blind, who w 
day, 

Tho' sitting girt with doubtful 1 





Love Thou th\ Land. 



Make knowledge circle with the 
winds ; 
But let her herald, Reverence, fly 
Before her to whatever sky 
Bear seed of men and growth of 
minds. 

Watch what main-currents draw the 



Kegar 



Prejudice against 
ut gentle words are always gam : 
;ard the 



: gram : 

ays gaii 

weakness of thy peers : 



Nor toil for title, place, or touch 
Of pension, neither count on praise: 
It grows to guerdon after-days : 

Nor deal in watch-words overiiuich : 

Not clinging to some ancient saw ; 
Not master'd by some modern 

Not swift nor slow to change, but 
firm: 
And in its season bring the law; 

TliMl from Discussion's lip may fall 
With Life, that, working strongly, 

binds— 
Set in all lights by manv minds. 



For Nature also, cold and warm. 
And moist and dry, devising long. 
Thro' many agents making strong, 

Matures the individual form. 

Meet is it changes should control 
Our being, lest we rust in ease. 
We all are changed by still degrees. 

All but the basis of the" soul. 



flies, 
And work, a joint of state, that 
plies 
Its office, moved with sympathy. 

d to shape in act ; 
past of "Time reveals 
A bridal dawn of thunder-peals. 
Wherever Thought hath wedded 
Fact. 





Ev'n now we hear with inward strife 
A motion toiling in the glo 
The .Spirit of the years to c 

Year,.;iig to mix himself with Life. 

A slow-develop'd strength awaits 
Completion in a painful school ; 
Phantoms of other forms of rule, 

New Majesties of mighty States— 

The warders of the growing hour, 
But vague in vapor, hard to mark ; 
And round them sea and air aie 
dark 

With great contrivances of Power. 

Of many changes, aptly join'd. 
Is bodied forth the second whole. 
Regard gradation, lest the soul 

Of Discord race the rising wind : 



A wind to puff your idol-fires, 

And heap their ashes on the head ; 
To shame the boast so often made, 

That we are wiser than our sires. 

Oh yet, if Nature's evil star 

Drive men in manhood, as in youth, 
To follow flying steps of Truth 

Across the brazen bridge of war — 

If New and Old, disastrous feud. 
Must ever shock, like armed foes. 
And this be true, till Time shall 

That Principles are rain'd in blood ; 

Not yet the wise of heart would cease 
To hold his hope thro' shame and 

guilt. 
But with his hand against the hilt. 
Would pace the troubled land, like 
Peace ; 



Would serve his kind in deed and 



Not less, tho' dogs of Faction Day, 
:d 8 
word. 
Certain, if knowledge bring the 

sword, 
'hat knowledge takes the 





England and America in 17S2 — The Goose. 



the gleams of good that 



From either side, nor veil his eyes : 
And if some dreadful need should 

rise 
Would strike, and firmly, and one 

stroke : 

Tc-morrow yet would reap to-day, 
As we bear blossom of the dead ; 
Earn well the thrifty montlis, nor 

Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay. 



ENGLAND AND AMERICA 
IN 1782. 

O THOiT, that sendest out the man 

To rule by land and sea, 
Strong mother of a Lion-line, 
Be proud of those strong sons of thine 

Who wrench'd their rights from 
thee ! 

What wonder, if in noble heat 

Those men thine arms withstood, 

Retaught the lesson thou hadst taught. 

And in thy spirit with thee fought — 

Who sprang from English blood! 

But Thou rejoice with liberal joy, 

Lift up thy rocky face. 
And shatter, when the storms are 

black. 
In many a streaming torrent back. 

The seas that shock thy base ! 

Whatever harmonies of law 

Tlie growing world assume. 
Thy work is thine — The single note 
From that deep chord which Hamp- 
den smote 
Will vibrate to the doom. 



THE GOOSE. 



an old wife lean and poor, 
gs scarce held together ; 
rhere strode a stranger to the door, 
And it was windy weather. 





He held a goose upon his arm. 
He utter'd rhyme and reason, 
' Here, take the goose, and keep you 



She caught the white goose by the leg, 
A goose — 'twas no great matter. 

The goose let fall a golden egg 
With cackle and with clatter. 



She dropt the goose, and caught the 
pelf, 
And ran to tell her neighbors ; 
And bless'd herself, and cursed her- 
self, 
And rested from her labors. 



And feeding high, and living soft, 

Grew phi'mp'and al)le-bodied ; 
Until the grave churchwarden doff'd. 



Th 



parson ^ 



rk'd 



lodded. 



So sitting, served by man and maid. 
She felt her heart grow prouder : 

But ah ! the more the white goose 
laid 
It clack'd and cackled louder. 

It clutter'd here, it chuckled there ; 

It stirr'd the old wife's mettle: 
She shifted in her elbow-chair, 

And hurl'd the pan and kettle. 

' A quinsy choke thy cursed note ! ' 

Then wax'd her anger stronger. 
' Go, take the goose, and wring her 



bea 



longer.' 



Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the 
cat ; 

Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. 
The goose flew this way and flew that, 

.^nd fill'd the house with cla 



.\s head and heels upon the floor 
They flounder'd all together. 

There 'strode a stranger to the door. 
And it was windy weather : 





The Epii 



He took the goose upon 1 

He uttei'd wor.ls of sco 

' So keep you uold, or kee 



lie wild wind rang from park and 
plain, 

And round the attics rumbled, 
ill all the tables danced again, 

And half the chimneys tumbled. 




And a whirlwind cl 

And while on all sides breaking loose 

Her household fled the danger. 
Quoth she, 'The Devil take the 

And God forget the stranger ! ' 



ENGLISH 

AND OTHE 



IDYLLS 

K POEMS. 



THE EPIC. - 

At Francis Allen's on the Christmas- 

The game of forfeits done — the girls 

all kiss'd 
Beneath the sacred bush and past 

The parSon Holmes, the poet Everard 
Hall, 

The host, and I sat round the wassail- 
bowl, 

Then half-wav ebb'd : and there we 
held a talk. 

How all the old honor had from 
Christmas gone. 

Or gone, or dwindled down to some 
odd games 

In some odd nooks like this; till I, 



red. 



ng eighl 



tha 



' upo 



the 



Where, three times slipping from the 

outer edge, 
I bump'd the ice into three several 

ike I 

wider 

harping on the church-commis- 

hawkins at Cleoloav and schism : 



Fell in a doze; and half 
heard 
le parson taking wide ai 




Until 



oke, and found him settled 



Upon the general decay of faith 
Right thro' the world, 'at home was 

little left, 
And none abroad : there was no 

anchor, none, 
To hold by.' Francis, laughing, clapt 

his hand 
On Everard's shoulder, with ' I hold 

by him.' 
■ And I,' quoth Everard, ' by the was- 
sail-bowl.' 
'Why yes,' I said, 'we knew your 

gift that way 
At college: but another which you had, 
I mean of verse (for so we held it 

then). 
What came of that?' 'You know,' 

said Frank, ' he burnt 
His epic, his King Arthur, some 

twelve books ' — 
And then to me demanding why .' 

' Oh, sir. 
He thought that nothing new was 

said, or else 
.Something so said 'twas nothing — 

tha't a truth 
Looks freshest in the fashion of the 

day: 
God knows : he has a 

reasons : ask. 
It pleased me well enough 

nay,' said Hall, 





Morte d' Arthur. 



• Why take tlie style of those heroic 

times ? 
For nature brings not back the Mas- 



Xor we those times ; and why should 
any man 

Remodel models ? these twelve books 
of mine 

Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing- 
worth, 

Mere chaff and draff, much better 
burnt." 'But I,' 

.Said Francis, ' pick'd the eleventh 
from this hearth 

And have it: keep a thing, its use 

I hoard it as a sugar-plum for 

Holmes." 
He laugh"d, and I, tho' sleepy, like a 

horse 
That hears the corn-bin_open, prick'd 

my ears ; 
For I remember'd Everard's college 

fame 
When we were Freshmen : then at 

He brought it; and the poet little 
urged. 

But with some prelude of disparage- 
ment, 

Rekd, mouthing out his nollow oes 
and aes, 

Deep-chested mus 



1 this resull 



MORTE D'ARTHUR. 

So all dav long the noise of battle 

roll'd 
Among the mountains by the winter 



Until 



Arthu 



table, man by 
se about their 



Had fallen in Ly 

King .\rthur : 

wound was deep, 
The bold .Sir Bedivere uplifted him, 
Sir Bedivere, the last of all hi 

knights, 
And bore him to a chapel niffh th 

field. 





That stood on a dark st 

land. 
Dn one side lay the Ocean, aiul 



■ The sequel of to-day unsolders all ■ 
The goodliest fellowship of famous 

knights 
Whereof this world holds record. 

Such a sleep 
They sleep — the men 1 loved. I think 

that we 
Shall never more, af any future time. 
Delight our souls with talk of knightly 

deeds, 
^Yalking about the gardens and the 

halls 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which [ 

made, — 
Tho' Merlin sware ihat I should come 

again 
To rule once more — but let what will 

be, be, 
1 am so deeply smitten thro' the hehn 
That without help I cannot last ti'l 

Thou therefore take my brand K.v- 

calibur, 
Which was my pride: for thou re- 

memberest how 
In those old days, one summer noon. 



Rose up from 

lake. 
Clothed in white samite, mvsl 

derful. 
Holding the sword — and how 



bosom of the 



v'd 



And took 

king : 
.\nd, wheresoever I an sung or told 
In aftertime, this also shall be known : 
But now delay not : take Excalibur. 
.\nd fling him far into the middle 

Watch what thou seest, 










~ 




~7 


T71 1 1— :> 


9 1 1 CT 


I 




j 


46 Morft- (f Arthur. 


To him replied the bold Sir Bedi- 


' Hast thou perforra'd my mission 




- 


vere : 


which I gave ? 


. 








'It is not meet. Sir King, to leave 


What is it thou hast seen ? or what 








eAfl thee thus, 


hast heard.'' ^ 






Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the 


And answer made the bold Sir 






helm. 


Bedivere : 






A little thing may harm a wounded 


' I heard the ripple washing in the | 






Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring 


And the wild water lapping on the 






crag.' 






thee word.' 


To whom re]ilied King Art'.iur, 






So saving, from the ruin'd shrine he 


faint and pale: 






stept 


•Thou hast betray'd thy nature and 






And in the moon athwart the place of 


thy name. 






tombs. 


Not rendering true answer, as be- 






Where lay the mighty bones of an- 


seem'd 






cient men, 


Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : 






Old knights, and over them the sea- 


For surer sign had follow'd, either 






wind sang 


hand, 






Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, 


Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 






stepping down 


This is a shametid thing for men to 






Bv zig-zatr paths, and juts of pointed 


lie. 






• rock. 


Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go 






Came on the shining le\els of the 


again 






lake. 


As thou art lief and dear, and do the 






There drew he forth the brand 


thing 






Excalibur, 


I bad thee, watch, and lightly bring 






And o'er him, drawing it, the winter 


me word.' ' 
Then went Sir Bedivere the second 






Brighte'ning'the skirts of a long cloud, 


time 






Across the ridge, and paced beside 






And sparkled keen with frost against 


the mere. 






the hilt: 


Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in 






For all the haft twinkled with dia- 


thought; 






mond sparks, 


But when he saw the wonder of the 






Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth- 


hilt. 






work 


How curiously and strangely chased. 






Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so 


he smote 






long 


His palms together, and he cried 






That both his eyes were dazzled, as he 


aloud. 






stood, 


'And if indeed I cast the brand 






this way and that dividing the swift 


away, 






mind. 


Surely a precious thing, one worthy 






In act to throw: but at the last it 


note, 






seem'd 


Should thus be lost forever from the 






Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 


earth. 






There in the manv-knotted waterflags. 


Which might have pleased the eyes of ,_. 






*]P That whistled stiff and dry about the 


many men. T 






. 


marge. 


What good should follow this, if this 










So strode he back slow to the wounded 


were done.' 










King. 


What harm, undone .= deep harm to 










Then spake King Arthur to Sir 


disobey. 








\ 


Bedivere : 

K, , - 


Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 


1 






^ 


B 1 13 I \ \ [1A> 






1 




Moiic d'Aiikn. 



Were it well to obey then, if a king 

demand 
An act unprofitable, against himself? 
The King is sick, and knows not 

what he dues. 
What record, or what relic of mv 

lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty 

breath 
And rumors of a doubt ? but were this 

kept, 
Stored in some treasure-house of 

mighty kings. 
Some one might show it at a joust of 

arms. 
Saying, " King Arthur's sword, Excal- 

ibur, 
Wrought bv the lonely maiden of the 

Lake. 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in 
j the deeps 

Upon the hidden bases of the hills." 
So might some old man speak in the 

aftertime 
To all the people, winning reverence. 
But now much honor and much fame 

were lost.' 
So spake he, clouded with his own 
. conceit, 

/ And hid E.\calibur the second time. 
And so strode back slow to the 

wounded King. 
Then spoke King Arthur, breath- 
ing heavily : 
' What is it thou hast seen.' or what 

hast heard ? ' 
And answer made the bold Sir 

Bedivere: 
' I heard the water lapping on the 

crag, 
And the long ripple washing in the 

reeds.' 
To whom replied King Arthur, 

much in wrath : 
' Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is 

.\uthority forgets a dying king, 
I^aid widow'd of the power in his eye 
That bow'd the will. I see thee what 

thou art. 
For thou, the latest-left of all my 

knights. 





In whom should meet 

all. 
Thou wouldst betray me foi 

precious hilt; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the 

eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice. 
And the third time may prosper, get 

thee hence : 
But, if thou spare to fling E.xcalibur, 
I will arise and slay thee with my 

hands.' 
Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, 



the ridges lightly. 



And, leaping do 

plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd 

the sword. 
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. 

The great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendor of 

the moon. 
And flashing round and round, and 

whirl'd in an arch, 
Shot like a streamer of the northern 

morn. 
Seen where the moving isles of winter 

shock 
By night, with noises of the northern 

So flash'd and fell the brand E.xcali- 
bur : 
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an 

Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 

And caught him by the hilt, and 
braiidish'd him 

Three times, and drew him under in 
the mere. 

And lightly went the other to the 
King. 
Then spoke King Arthur, drawing 
thicker breath : 

' Now see I by thine eyes that this is 
done. 

Speak out : what is it thou hast heard, 

And answer made the bold Sir 
Bedivere : 
' Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest 
the gems 





Morte (V Arthur. 



Should blind my purpose, for I never 

Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I 

die, 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal 

So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, 

wheeling him; 
But when I look'd again, behold an 

' Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 
That caunht him by the hilt, and bran- 

dis'h'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in 

the mere.' 
And answer made King Arthur, 

breathing hard: 
' My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I 

were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive 

my weight. 
And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I 

shall die.' 
So saying, from the pavement he 

half rose. 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his 

And looking wistfully with wide blue 

As in a picture. Him Sir Kedivere 
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears. 
And would have spoken, but he found 

Then took with care, and kneeling on 

O'er both his shoulders drew the lan- 
guid hands. 
And rising bore him thro' the place of 

tombs. 
But, as he walk'd. King Arthur 

panted hard, 
Like one that feels a nightinare on his 

bed 
When all the house is mute. So 

siyh'd the King, 
M 

'Quick, quick! 
I fear it is too Kite, and I shall die.' 
l!ut the other swiftly strode from 

ridge to ridge, 




I Clothed with his breath, and looking, 
as he walk'd. 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a 

Before. His own thought drove him, 

like a goad. 
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy 

And barren chasms, and all to left and 

right 
The bare black cliff clang'd round 

him, as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that 

rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed 

heels— 
And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake, 
And the long glories of the winter 

Then saw they how there hove a 

dusky barge. 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to 

stern, 
Beneath them; and descending they 

were ware 
That all the decks were dense with 

stately forms 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a 

dream— by these 

of gold — 

A cry that shiver'd to the tingling 

And, as it were one voice an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind, that 

shrills ' 

All night in a waste land, where no 



he making of the 
I'lace me 




Or hath come, s 

world. 
Then murmur'd Arth 

in the barge,' 
And to the barge they came. There 

those three Queens 
I'ut forth their hands, and took the 

King, and wept. 
But she, that rose the tallest of them 

all 
And fairest, laid his head upon licr 

lap. 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and 

chafed his hands. 





MorU ,r Arthur. 



And call'd him by his name, complain 

iiig loud, ■ 
And dropping bitter tears against hi; 



Striped with dark blood : for all his 
face was white 

And colorless, and like the wither'd 
moon 

Smote by the fresh beam of the spring- 
ing east ; 

And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd 
with drops 

Of onset; and the light and lustrous 
curls — 

That made his forehead like a rising 

High from the dais throne — were 

parch'd with dust ; 
Or, clotted into points and hanging 

loose, 
Mix'd with the knightly growth that 

fringed his lips. 
So like a shatter'd column lav the 




j^mg; 
Not like that Arthur 

in rest. 
From spur to plume 



vho, 



ith lance 



Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and 

charged 
Before the eves of ladies and of kings. 
Then loudly cried the bold Sir 

Bedivere, 
'Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall 

I go.' 
Where shall I hide my forehead and 

my eyes .' 
For now I see the true old times are 

dead. 
When every morning brought a noble 

chance. 
And every chance brought out a noble 

knight. 
Such tmies have been not since the 

light that led 
The holy Elders with the gift of 

myrrh. 

ow the whole ROUND tahle is 

dissolved 
Which was an image of the mightv 

rid; 
.\nd I, the last, go forth companion- 



And the days darken 

the years. 
Among new men, strange faces, otlier 

minds.' 
And slowly answered Arthur from 

the barge : 
' The old order changeth, yielding 

place to new, 
And God fulfils Himself in many 

ways. 
Lest one good custom should corrupt 

the world. 
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in 

me ? 
I have lived my life, and that which I 

have done 
May He within Himself make pure ! 

but thou. 
If thou shouldst never see my face 

again. 
Pray for my soul. More things are 

wrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Where- 
fore, let thy voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and 

day. 
For what are men better than sheep or 

goats 
That nourish a blind life within the 

brain. 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of 

prayer 
Both for themselves and those who 

call them friend.' 
For so the whole round earth is every 

way 
Bound bv gold chains ab 

God. 
But now farewell. I an 



With these thou sees 
go— 



jt the feet of 

going a long 

-if indeed I 

d is clouded with a 



iid-vallev of Avil 



in, or any 




Deep-meadow'd, happy fair 

orchard-lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd 

summer sea. 





The Gardener's Daughtet 



Where I will heal me of my grievous 

So said he, and the barge with oar 

and sail 

Moved from the brink, like some full- 
breasted swan 
That, fluting a wild carol ere her 

death. 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes 

the flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir 

BediveVe 
Revolving many memories, till the 

hull 
I.ook'd one black dot against the 

verge of dawn, 
And on the mere the wailing died 



Herk ended Hall, and our last light, 

tliat long 
Had wink'd and threaten'd darkness, 

flared and fell : 
At which the Parson, sent to sleep 

with sound, 
And waked with silence, grunted 

' Good ! ' but we 
Sat rapt : it was the tone with which 

he read — 
Perhaps some modern touches here 

and there 
Redeem'd it from the charge of noth- 
ingness— 
Or else we loved the man, and prized 

his work ; 
I know not : Ijut we sitting, as I 

said. 
The cock crew loud ; as at that time 

of year 
The lustv bird takes everv hour for 

dawn : 
Then Francis, muttering, like a man 

ill-used. 
• There now — that's nothing ! " drew a 

little back, 
And drove his heel into the snioulder'd 

log. 
That sent a blast of sparkles up the 



\nd so to bed ; where yet in sleep 



1 with Arthur under looming 
hores, 





Point after jioint ; till on 
when dreams 

Begin to feel the truth and stir of day, 

To me, methought, who waited with'a 
crowd, 

There came a bark that, blowing for- 
ward, bore 

King Arthur, like a modern gentle- 
man 

Of stateliest port ; and all the people 
cried, 

' Arthur is come again : he cannot 
die.' 

Then those that stood upon the hills 
behind 

Repeated — ' Come again, and thrice as 
fair ; ' 

And, further inland, voices echo'd — 
' Come 

With all good things, and war shall be 
no more.' 

At this a hundred bells began to peal. 

That with the sound I woke, and 
heard indeed 

The clear church-bells ring in the 
Christmas-morn. 



THE GARDENER'S 
DAUGHTER: 



This morning is the morning of the 

day, 
When I and Eustace from the city 

To see the Gardener's Daughter; I 
and he. 

Brothers in Art ; a friendship so com- 
plete 

Portion'd in halves between us, that 
we grew 

The fable of the city where we dwelt. 
My Eustace might have sat for Her- 



So muscular he 

breast. 
He, by some law 

and draws 
The greater to the lesser, long de- 



pread, so broad of 
that holds in love, 





Or, the PUiurcs. 



miracle of symmetry, 
' 'oveliiiess, all grace 
Suniiii'd up and closed in little ;-Ju- 

liet, she 
So light of foot, so light of spirit — oh, 

she 
To me myself, for some three careless 

The summer pilot of an empty heart 
Unto the shores of nothing ! Know 

you not 
Such touches are but embassies of love. 
To tamper with the feelings, ere he 

found 
Empire for life ■■ but Eustace painted 

her. 
And said to me, she sitting with us 

then, 
' When will vou paint like this?' and 

I replied, 
(My words were half in earnest, half 

in jest,) 
' 'Tis not your work, but Love's. 

Love, unperceived, 
A more ideal Artist he than all. 
Came, drew your pencil from you, 

made those eyes 
Darker than darkest pansies, and that 

hair 
More black than ashbuds in the front 

of March.' 
And Juliet answer'd laughing, ' Go 

and see 
The Gardener's daughter : trust me, 

after that. 
You scarce can fail to match his ma.s- 

ter-piece.' 
And up we rose, and on the spur we 

Not wholly in the busy world, nor 

Beyond it, blooms the garden that I 

News from the humming city comes 

to it 
In sound of funeral or of marriage 

bells; 
And, sitting muffled in dark leaves. 

The windy clanging of the minster 

clock ; 
.Although between it and the garden 





A league of grass, wash'd by a slow 

broad stream. 
That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the 

Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps 

Barge-laden, to three arches of a 

bridge 
Crown'd with the minster-towers. 

The fields between 
Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep- 
feathers 



lewy-tres 

udder'd 1 

And- all about the large 



low. 
The lime a summer home of murmur- 
ous wings. 
In that still place she, hoarded in 

herself. 
Grew, seldom seen ; not less among us 

lived 
Her fame from lip to lip. Who had 

not heard 
Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter .' 

Where was he. 
So blunt in memory, so old at heart. 
At such a distance from his youth in 

grief, 
That, having seen, forgot ? The com- 
mon mouth, 
.So gross to express delight, in praise 

of her 
Grew orator)'. Such a lord is Love, 
And Beauty such a mistress of the 

world. 
And if I said that Fancv, led by 

Love, 
Would plav with flying forms and 

images. 
Yet this is also true, that, long before 
I look'd upon her, when I heard her 

name 
My heart was like a prophet to my 

heart, 
And told me I should love. A crowd 

of hopes. 
That sought to sow themselves like 

winged seeds, 
Born out of everything I heard and 



Flutter'd about my senses and my 

soul ; 
And vague desires, like fitful blasts of 





The Gardener's Daughter; 



:1s quickly, made ihe 

Of Life delicious, and all kinds of 

thouglit. 
That verged upon them, sweeter than 

tlie dream 
1 )ream'd by a happy man, wlien the 

dark East, 
Unseen, is brightening to his bridal 

And sure this orbit of the mem- 
ory folds 
For ever in itself the day we went 
To see her. All the land in flowery 

squares. 
Beneath a broad and equal-blowing 

wind. 
Smelt of the coming summer, as one 

large cloud 
Drew downward : but all else of 

heaven was pure 
Up to the Sun, and May from verge 

to verge. 
And May with me from head to heel. 

And now. 
As the' 'twere yesterday, as tho' it were 
The hour just flown, that morn with 

all its sound, 
(For those old Mays had thrice the 

life of these,) 
Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot 

to graze, 
.\nd, where the hedge-row cuts the 

pathway, stood, 
Leaning his horns into the neighbor 

field. 
And lowing to his fellows. From the 

woods 
I'ame voices of the well-contented 

doves. 
The lark could scarce get out his 

notes for joy, 
Hut shook his song together as he 



right, 

"he cuckoo told his name to all the 
hills; 

I'he mellow ouzel fluted in the elm ; 

"he redcap whistled ; and the nightin- 
gale 

iang loud, as tho' he were the bird of 
day. 





A. id Eustace turn 

said to me, 
'Hear how the bushes echo! by my 

life, 
These birds have joyful thoughts. 

Think you they sing 
Like poets, from the vanitv of song ? 
Or have they any sense of why they 

sing.' 
And would they praise the heavens 

for what they have ? ' 
And I made answer, ' Were there 

nothmg else 
For which to praise the heavens but 



That 


onlv love were cause enough fur 




praise.' 




Lightly he laugh'd.as o 


le that read 




my thought. 




And 


on we went ; but ere 
pass'd. 


an hour had 


VVei 


each'd a meadow sla 
North ; 


iting to the 


Dow 


1 which a well-wo 
courted us 


•n pathway 


To 


jne green wicket 
hedge; 


n a privet 




yielding, gave int 


a grassy 




walk 




Thro 


crowded lilac-am 


)ush trimly 



pruned ; 
And one warm gust, full-fed with per- 



Beyond us, a 
The garden ; 



ches 



In 



the 



A cedar spread his dark-green layers 

of shade. 
The, garden-glasses shone, and mo- 
mently 
The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver 

lights. 
' Eustace,' I said, ' this wonder keeps 

the house.' 
He nodded, but a moment afterwards 
He cried, ' Look ! look ! ' Before he 

ceased I turn'd, 
And, ere a star can wink, beheld her 

there. 
For up the porch there grew an 

Eastern rose. 
That, flowering high, the last night's 

gale had caught, 





DROPT EYES I SAT ALONE,"— /*!£•« 1$. 



Or, the Fictui 



And blown across the walk. One arm 

aloft— 
Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to 

the shape — 
Holding the busli, to fix it back, she 

stood, 
A single stream of all her soft brown 

hair 
Pnur'd on one side : the shadow of 

the flowers 
Stole all the golden gloss, and, waver- 



Lovingly low 



ible 



on her 



Ah, happy shade — and still went wa- 
vering down, 

Kut, ere it toiich'd a foot, that might 
have danced 

The greensward into greener circles, 
dipt. 

And mix'd with shadows of the com- 
mon ground ! 

But the full day dwelt on lier brows, 
and sunn'd 

Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe 
bloom, 

And doubled his own warmth against 
her lips. 

And on the bounteous wave of such a 
breast 

As never pencil drew. Half light, 
half shade. 

She stood, a sight to make an old 
man young. 
So rapt, we near'd the house ; but 
she, a Rose 

In roses, mingled with her fragrant 
toil. 

Nor heard us come, nor from her 



Into the world 
.\nd almost er 



; till close at 
re I knew mine own 
broke the stillness of 



This murmur 

that air 
Which brooded round about her : 

* Ah, one rose, 
( )ne rose, but one, by those fair 

fingers cuU'd, 
Were worth a hundred kisses press'd 

on lips 
Less exquisite than thine.' 





Nor startled, but betwixt this mood 

and that. 
Divided in a graceful quiet — paused. 
And dropt the branch she held, and 

turning, wound 
Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd 

her lips 
For some sweet answer, tho' no 

Nor yet refused the rose,but granted it. 
And moved away, and left me, statue- 
like. 
In act to render thanks. 

Saw her no 
there 

Till every daisy slept, and Love's 
white star 

Beam'd thro' the thicken'd cedar in 
the dusk. 
So home we went, and all the live- 
long way 

With solemn gibe did Eustace banter 

■ Now,' said he, ' will you climb the 

top of .'\rt. 
Vou cannot fail but work in hues to 

dim 
The Titianic Flora. Will you match 
My Juliet ? you, not you, — the Master, 

Love, 
h more ideal Artist he than all.' 
So home I went, but could not 

sleep for joy, 
Reading her perfect features in the 

gloom. 
Kissing the rose she gave me o'er 

and o'er, 
And shaping faithful record of the 

glance 
That graced the giving— such a noise 

of life 
Swarm'd in the golden present, such 

a voice 
Call'd to me from the years to come, 

and such 
K length of bright horizon rimm'd 

the dark. 
And all that night I heard the watch- 
man peal 





The Gardener s Daiighte. 



sliding season : all that night I 

heard 
The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy 

hours. 
The drowsy hours, dispensers of all 

O'er the mute city stole with folded 

wings, 
Distilling odors on me as they went 
To greet their fairer sisters of the 

East. 
Love at first sight, first-born, and 

Made this night thus. Henceforward 

squall nor storm 
Could keep me from that Eden where 

she dwelt. 
Light pretexts drew me ; sometimes 

a Dutch love 
For tulips ; then for roses, moss or 






fruits 



To grace my city ro( 

and cream 
Served in the weeping elm ; and more 

A word could bring the color to my 

cheek : 
A thought would fill my eyes with 

happy dew ; 
Love trebled life within me, and with 

The year increased. 

The daughters of the year, 
One after one, thro' that still garden 

pass'd ; 
Each garlanded with her peculiar 

flower 
Danced into light, and died into the 

shade ; 
And each in passing touch'd with 

some new grace 
Or seem'd to touch her, so that day 

by day. 
Like one that never can be wholly 

known. 
Her beauty grew; till Autumn 

brought an hour 
For Eustace, when I heard his deep 

will,' 
lireathed, like the covenant of a God, 

to hold 
From thence thro' all the worlds : but 

I rose up 





Full of his bliss, and following he 
dark eyes 

Felt earth as air beneath me, tUl 
reach'd 

The wicket-gate, and found her stand- 
ing there. 
There sat we down upon a garden 
mound. 

Two mutually enfolded ; Love, the 
third. 

Between us, in the circle of his arms 

Enwound us both ; and over many a 



Across a hazy glimmer of the west, 
Reveal'd their shining windows : from 

them clash'd 
The bells ; we listen'd ; with the 

time we play'd, 
We spoke of other things ; we 

coursed about 
The subject most at heart, more near 

and near. 
Like doves about a dovecote, wheel- 
ing round 
The central wish, until we settled 

there. 
Then, in that time and place, I 

spoke to her. 
Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine 



Vet for the pie 



tha 



I took 



Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, 
A woman's heart, the heart of her I 

loved ; 
And in that time and place she 

answer'd me, 
And in the compass of three little 

words. 
More musical than ever came in one. 
The silver fragments of a broken 

voice. 
Made me most happy, faltering, ' I am 

thine.' 
Shall I cease here .' Is this enough 

to say 
That my desire, like all strongest 

hopes. 
By its own energy fulfiU'd itself. 
Merged in completion ? Would you 

learn at full 





How passion rose thro' circumstan- 
tial grades 

Beyond all grades develop 'd ? and in- 
deed 

I had not staid so long to tell you all. 

But while I mused came Memory 
with sad eyes. 

Holding the folded annals of my 
youth ; 

And while I mused, Love with knit 
brows went by, 

And with a flying finger swept my 
lips. 

And spake, ' Be wise : not easily for- 

Are those, who setting wide the doors 

that bar 
The secret bridal chambers of the 

heart. 
Let in the day.' Here, then, my 

words have end. 
Yet might I tell of meetings, of 

farewells — 
Of that which came between, more 

sweet than each. 
In whispers, like the whispers of the 

leaves 
That tremble round a nightingale — in 

sighs 
Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for 

utterance, 
Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might 

I not tell 
Of difference, reconcilement, pledges 

given. 
And vows, where there was never 

need of vows, 
And kisses, %vhere the heart on one 

wild leap 
Hung tranced from all pulsation, as 

above 
The heavens between their fairy 

fleeces pale 
Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleet- 

Or while the balmy glooming, cres- 

Spread the light haze along the river- 
shores. 
And in the hollows ; or as once we 



Unheedful, tho' beneath a whispering 





Night slid down one long stream of 

sighing wind. 
And in her bosom bore the baby, 
Sleep. 

But this whole hour your eyes have 
been intent 
On that veil'd picture — veil'd, for 

what it holds 
May not be dwelt on by the common 
day. 
j This prelude has prepared thee. Raise 

thy soul ; 
i Make thine heart ready with thine 

eyes : the time 
j Is come to raise the veil. 

Behold' her there. 
As I beheld her ere she knew my 
heart, 
I My first, last love ; the idol of my 
I youth. 

The darling of my manhood, and, 
! alas ! 

Now the most blessed memory of 
mine age. 



And she his niece. He often look'd 

at them. 
And often thought, ' I'll make them 

man and wife.' 
Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all. 
And yearn'd toward William ; but 

the youth, because 
He had been always with her in the 
house, 
I Thought not of Dora. 
I Then there came a day 

j When Allan call'd his son, and said, 
j • My son : 

I married late, but I would wish to 

see 
My grandchild on my knees before I 

die : 
And I have set my heart upon a 
match. 
! Now therefore look to Dora ; she is 
well 





To look to ; thrifty too beyond her 

age. 
She is my brother's daughter : he and I 
Had once hard words, and parted, 

and he died 
In foreign lands ; but for his sake I 

bred 
His daughter Dora : take her for 

your wife ; 
For I have wish'd this marriage, night 

and day, 
For many years.' But William an- 

swer'd short : 
• I cannot marry Dora ; by my life, 
I will not marrv Dora.' Then the 

old liian ' 
Was wroth, and doubled up his 

hands, and said : 
■ You will not, boy 1 you dare to an- 
swer thus I 
But in my time a father's word was 

law, 
And so it shall be now for me. Look 

to it; 
Consider, William : take a month to 

think, 
."^nd let me have an answer to my 

wish ; 
Or, by the Lord that made me, you 

shall pack. 
And never more darken my doors 

again.' 
But William answer'd madly ; bit his 

lips. 
And broke away. The more he 

look'd at her 
The less he liked her ; and hi 

were harsh ; 
But Dora bore them meekly. Then 

before 
The month was out he left his father's 

house. 
And hired himself to work within the 

fields ; 
And half in love, half spite, he woo'd 

and wed 
A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 
Then, when the bells were ringing, 

Allan call'd 

and said : ' My girl, 1 love 

you well ; 
But if you speak with him that was 



ways 




Or change 



wife 




vith her he call; 



My home is none of yours. My will 

is law.' 
And Dora promised, being meek. 

She thought, 
' It cannot be : my uncle's mind will 

change . ' 
And days went on, and there was 

born a boy 
To William ; then distresses came on 

him; 
.•\nd day by day he pass'd his father's 

gate, 
Heart-broken, and his father help'd 

him not. 
But Dora stored what little she 

could save. 
And sent it them by stealth, nor did 

they know 
Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized 
On William, and m harvest time he 

died. 
Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat 
And look'd with tears upon her boy, 

and thought 
Hard things of Dora. Dora came 

and said : 
' I have obey'd my uncle until now. 
And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' 

me 
This evil came on William at the first. 
But, Mary, for the sake of him that's 

gone, 
And for your sake, the woman that 

he chose. 
And for this orphan, I am come to 

you: 
\'ou know there has not been for 

these five years 
So full a harvest: let me take the 

boy. 
And I will set him in my uncle's eye 
Among the wheat ; that when his 

heart is glad 
Of the full harvest, he may see the 

boy. 
And bless him for the sake of him 

that's gone.' 
And Dora took the child, and went 





That was unsown, where many pop- 
pies grew. 
Far off the farmer came into the 

field 
And spied her not ; for none of all 

his men 
Dare tell him Dora waited with the 

child ; 
And Dora would have risen and gone 

to him, 
But her heart fail'd her ; and the 

reapers reap'd, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was 

dark. 
But when the morrow came, she 

rose and took 
The child once more, and sat upon 

the mound; 
And made a little wreath of all the 

flowers 
That grew about, and tied it round 

his hat 
To make him pleasing in her uncle's 

eye. 
Then when the farmer pass'd into the 

field 
He spied her, and he left his men at 

work. 
And came and said : ' Where were 

you yesterday > 
Whose child is that .' What are you 

doing here .' ' 
So Dora cast her eyes upon the 

ground, 
.\nd answer'd softly, ' This is Wil- 
liam's child ! ' 
And did I not,' said Allan, ' did I 



Dora said 



agam : 



vill, but take the 



Forbid you, Dora 
Do with me as y 

child, 
And bless him for the sake of him 

that's gone ! ' 
And Allan said, ' I see it is a trick 
ot up betwixt you and the woman 

there, 
must be taught my duty, and by you ! 
ou knew my word was law, and yet 
vou dared 
To slight it. Well— for I will take 

the boy ; 
!ut go you hence, and never see me 
more.' 





And struggled hard. The v 

flowers fell 
.At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her 

hands, 
And the boy's cry came to her from 

the field. 
More and more distant. .She bow'd 

down her head, 
Remembering the day when first she 

came, 
And all the things that had been. 

Shi; bow'd down 
And wept in secret ; and the reapers 

reap'd. 
And the sun fell, and all the land was 

dark. 
Then Dora went to Mary's house, 

and stood 
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the 

boy 
Was not with Dora. She broke out 

in praise 
To God, that help'd her in her widow- 
hood. 
And Dora said, ' My uncle took the 

boy; 
But. Mary, let me live and work with 

He says that he will never see me 

more." 
Then answer'd Mary, • This shall 

never be. 
That thou shouldst take my trouble 

on thyself : 
And, now I think, he shall not have 

the boy. 
For he will teach him hardness, and to 



Sht 



therefore 
ny bo; 



ind 



nd br 



And I will have 

him home ; 
And I will beg of him to take thee 

back : 
But if he will not take thee back 

again. 
Then thou and 

house. 
And work for William's child, until he 



I Of 



age 1 



hell) us.' 










/<tn 1 -^-g 


9 \ U.f^ 


^ 






- 58 A/u//a 


Court 


So the women kiss'd 


So Mary said, and Dora hid her face 






F.ach other, and set out, and reach'd 


By Mary. There was silence in the -|||- 








the farm. 


room ; IF 


1 




^ The door was off the latch: they 


And all at pnce the old man burst in w 


1 




])eep'd, and saw 


sobs :— 


1 




The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's 


' I have been to blame— to blame. 






knees, 


I have kill'd mv son. 






Who thrust him in the hollows of his 


I have kill'd him— but I loved him— 






arm, 


my dear son. 






And clapt him on the hands and on 


May God forgive me ! — I have been to 






the cheeks. 


blame 






Like one th;it loved him : and the lad 


Kiss me, my children.' 






stretch'd out 


Then they clung about 






And babbled for the golden seal, that 


The old man's neck, and kiss'd him 






huno 


many times. 






From Alla^n's svatch, and sparkled by 


And all the man was broken with re- 






the fire. 


morse ; 






Then thev came in : but when the bov 


And all his love came back a hundred- 






beheld 


fold ; 






His mother, he cried out to come to 


And for three hours he sobb'd o'er 






her: 


William's child 






And Allan set him down, and Mary 


Thinking of William. 






said : 


So those four abode 






' O Father I— if you let me call you 


Within one house together; and as 






I never came a-begging for myself. 


years 
Went forward, Mary took another 






Or William, or this child; but now I 


mate ; 






come 


But Dora lived unmarried till her 






For Dora : take her back ; she loves 


death. 






von well. 








O Sir, when William died, he died at 








peace 








With all men ; for I ask'd him, and he 

said. 
He could not ever rue his marrying 


AUDLEY COURT. 






'The Bull, the Fleece are cranim'd. 






me — 


and not a room 






I had been a patient wife : but. Sir, he 


For love or money. Let us picnic 






said 


there 






That he was wrong to cross his father 


At Audley Court.' 






thus; 


I spoke, while Audlev feast 






"(;„d bless him!" he said, "and 


Humm'd like a hive all round the 






niav he never know 


narrow quay, 






The troubles I have gone thro'!" 


To Francis, with a basket on his arm, 






Then he turn'd 


To Francis just alighted from the 






His face and pass'd — unhappy that I 


boat, 
And breathing of the sea. ' With all 






But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for 


mv heart,' 






' . vnu 


Said Fr'ancis. Then we shoulder'd "^ 






. 


Will make him hard, and he will learn 


thro' the swarm, 










to slight 


And rounded by the stillness of the 










His father's memorv ; and take Uora 


beach 










back. 


To where the bay runs up its latest 








^ 


And let all this be as it was before.' 


horn. • . 


n 




Q 1 1 2 11 1 L^JV 

















/rm 1 1 ■! t^=i=CT 


\ 




1 


Audlcy 


Court. 59 


We left the dying ebb that faintly 


To hear him, clapt his hand in mine 




- 


lipp'd 


and sang— 


. 








The flat red granite ; so by manv a 


' Oh ! who would fight and march 








e^ sweep ^ 


and countermarch, OU 






Of meadow smooth from aftermath we 


Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field. 






reach'd 


And shovell'd up into some bloody 






The gritiin-guarded gates, and pass'd 


trench 






thro- all 


Where no one knows ? but let me live 






The pillar'd dusk of sounding syca- 
mores, 


my life. 






' Oh ! who would cast and balance 






And cross'd the garden to the gar- 


at a desk. 






dener's lodge. 


Perch'd like a crow upon a three-legg'd 






With all its casements bedded, and its 


stool, 






walls 


Till all his juice is dried, and all his 






And chimneys muffled in the leafy 


joints 






vine. 


Are full of chalk ? but let me live my 






There, on a slope of orchard, 


life. 






Francis laid 


• Who'd serve the state .' for if I 






A damask napkin wrought with horse 


carved mv name 






and hound. 


Upon the cliffs 'that guard my native 






Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of 


land. 






home. 


I might as well have traced it in the 






.And, half-cut-down, a pasty costlv- 


sands ; 






made, . i- ' - 


The sea vyastes all : but let me live my 






Where quail and pigeon, lark and 


life. 






leveret lay. 


• Oh ! who would love ? I won'd a 






Like fossils of the rock, with golden 


woman once. 






volks 


But she was sharper than an eastern 






Imbedded and injellied ; last, with 


wind. 






these. 


And all mv heart turn'd from her, as 






A flask of cider from his father's 


a thorn 






vats, 


Turns from the sea ; but let me live 






Prime, which I knew ; and so we sat 


mv life.' 






and eat 


He sang his song, and I replied with 






And talk'd old matters over ; who was 


mine : 






dead. 


I found it in a volume, all of songs, 






Who married, who was like to be, and 


Knock'd down to me, when old Sir 






how 


Robert's pride, 






The races went, and who would rent 


His book.s— the more the pity, so I 






the hall : 


said— 






Then touch'd upon the game, how 


Came to the hammer here in March— 






scarce it was 


and this— 






This season; glancing thence, dis- 


I set the words, and added names I 






cuss'd the farm. 


knew. 






The four-field system, and the |#ice of 


'Sleep, Ellen Aubrev, sleep, and 






grain ; 


dream of me; ' 






.A.nd struck upon the corn-laws, where 


Sleep. Ellen, folded in thv sister's arm. 






y we split, 


And sleeping, haply dream her arm is «X 








And came again together on the king 


mine. 










With heated faces; till he laugh'd 
And, while ' the blackbird on the 


'Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's 










Emilia, fairer than all else but thou. 










pippin hung 


For thnn art fairer than all else that is. 


;] 




|V 


□ 1 13 l\ \\^ 




1 . 1 




Walking to the Mail. 



■ Sleep, breathing health and peace 

upon her breast : 
sp, breathing love and trust against 



I go to-night : I come to-morrow morn. 

' I go, but I return : I would I were 

The pilot of the darkness and the 

dream. 
Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream 

So sang we each to either, Francis 
Hale, 

The farmer's son, who lived across 
the bay, 

My friend ; and I, that having where- 
withal, 

And in the fallow leisure of my life 

A rolling stone of here and every- 
where. 

Did what I would ; but ere the night 
we rose 

And saunter'd home beneath a moon, 
that, just 

In crescent, dimly rain'd about the 
leaf 

Twilights of airy silver, till we reach'd 

'I'he limit of the hills ; and as we 
sank 

From rock to rock upon the glooming 
quay, 

I he town was hush'd beneath us : 
lower down 

The bay was oily calm ; the harbor- 
buoy. 

Sole star of phosphorescence in the 
calm. 

With one green sparkle ever and 
anon 

Dipt by itself, and we were glad at 
heart. 



WALKING TO THE IMAIL. 

/o/iit. I'm glad I walk'd. How 
fresh the meadows look 

.\bove the river, and, but a month 
ago. 

The whole hill-side was redder than a 
fox. 

Is yon plantation where this byway 





The turnpike ? 
James. \'es. 

John. And when does this come 

by.' 

Jomes. The mail .= At one o'clock. 
John. What is it now .> 

James. A quarter to. 
John. Whose house is that I see .' 
No, not the County Member's with 

the vane : 
Up higher with the yew-tree by it, 

and half 
A score of gables. 

James. That.' Sir Edward Head's: 
But he's abroad : the place is to be 
sold. 
Jolw. Oh, his. He was not 



roke 



No, sir, he, 
evil in his 

vorld with iaimdice, 



Ve.x'd with a morbid dev 

blood 
That veil'd the 

hid his face 
From all men, and commercing with 

himself. 
He lost the sense that handles dailv 

life— 
That keeps us all in order more or 

And sick of home went overseas for 
change. 
John. And whither .' 
James. Nay, who knows .' he's 
here and there. 
But let him go ; his devil goes with 

him, 
As well as with his tenant, Jocky 
Dawes. 
John. What's that .' 
James. Vou saw the man — on 
Monday, was it .' — 
There by the humpback'd willow ; 

half stands up 
And bristles ; half has fall'n and 

•maile a bridge ; 
And there he caught the younker 

tickling trout — 
Caught ill flaf^rtuite — what's the 

Latin word .' — 
Delicto : but his house, for so they 

say. 
Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that 
shook 





Walking to the Mail. 



whined in lobbies, tapt 

at doors, 
And rummaged like a rat : no ser- 
vant stay'd : 
The farmer vext packs up his beds 

and chairs. 
And all his household stuff ; and with 

his boy 
Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the 

tilt. 
Sets out, and meets a friend who 

hails him, ' What ! 
You're flitting ! ' ' Yes, we're flitting,' 

says the ghost 
(For they had pack'd the thing 

among the beds,) 
' Oh well,' says he, ' you flitting with 

us too — 
Jack, turn the horses' heads and home 

again.' 
Jolin. He left his wife behind ; for 

so I heard. 
Jiimes. He left her, yes. I met 

my lady once : 
A woman like a butt, and harsh as 

crabs. 
John. Oh yet but I remember, ten 

years back — 
'Tis now at least ten years — and then 

she was — 
You could not light upon a sweeter 

thing : 
A body slight and round, and like a 

pear 
In growing, modest eyes, a hand, a 

foot 
Lessening in perfect cadence, and a 

As clean and white as privet when it 

Jamt-s. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, 

and they that loved 
At first like dove and dove were cat 

and dog. 
She was the daughter of a cottager, 
Out of her sphere. What betwixt 

shame and pride. 
New things and old, himself and her. 



'o what she is : a 

kind I 
.ike men, like manne 




nature ne\er 
s : like breeds 



Kind nature 


s the best 


: those man 


ners nt 


xt 




That fit us 


like a na 


ture seconc 




Which are indeed the manners of tlie 

great. 
John. But I had heard it was this 

bill that past, 
And fear of change at home, that 

drove him hence. 
Jonies. That was the last drop in 

the cup of gall. 
I once was near him, when his Ijailiff 

brought 
A Chartist pike. You should have 

seen him wince 
As from a venomous thing : he 

thought himself 
A mark for all, and shudder'd, lest a 

cry 
Should break his sleep by night, and 

his nice eyes 
Should see the raw mechanic's bloody 

thumbs 
Sweat on his blazon'd chairs ; but, sir, 

you know 
That these two parties still divide the 

world — 
Of those that want, and those that 

have : and still 
The same old sore breaks out from 

Now I 

myself, 
.•\ Tory to the quick, was as a boy 
Destructive, when I had not what I 

would. 
I was at school — a college in the 

South : 
Tltere lived a flayflint near ; we stole 

his fruit. 
If is hens, his eggs; but there was law 

for us : 
We paid in persi 

sir. She, 
With meditative 



le had a sow, 
. of much con- 



Lay great with pig, wallowing in sun 
and mud. 

By night we dragg'd her to the col- 
lege tower 

From her warm bed, and up the cork- 
screw stair 










/SRI 1 1 -S 


or, The Lake. 


2i 




E 


62 Edwin Morris 


With hand and rope we haled the 


Of city life ! I was a sketcher then : 




- • groaning sow. 


See here, my doing : curves of moun- 
tain, bridge. 


- 






And on tlie leads we kept lier till she 








SAS pigg'd. 


Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built 


i 






Large range of prospect had the 


When men knew how to build, upon 








mother sow, 


a rock 








And but for daily loss of one she 


With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock : 








loved 


And here, new-comers in an ancient 








As one by one we took them— but for 


hold. 








this— 


New-comers from the Mersey, million- 








As never sow was higher in this 


aires. 








world- 


Here lived the Hills— a Tudor-chim- 








Might have been happy : but what 


nied bulk 








lot is pure ? 


Of mellow brickwork on an isle of 








We took them all, till she was left 


bowers. 








alone 


me, my pleasant rambles by the 


, 






Upon her tower, the Niobe of swine. 


lake 








And so return'd unfarrow'd to her sty. 


With Edwin Morris and with Edward 








lolin. Thev found you out ? 


Bull 








James. Not they. 


The curate ; he was fatter than his 








phn. Well— after all— 
What know we of the secret of a 


cure. 
















man .' 


But Edwin Morris, he that knew 








His nerves were wrong. What ails 


the names, 








us, who are sound. 


Long learned names of agaric, moss 








That we should mimic this raw fool 


and fern, 








the world. 


Who forged a thousand theories of 








Which charts us all in its coarse 


the rocks. 








blacks or whites, 


Who taught me how to skate, to 








As ruthless as a baby with a worm, 
As cruel as a schoolboy ere he grows 


row, to swim. 








Who read me rhymes elaborately 








To Pity — more from ignorance than 


good. 








will. 


His own— I call'd him Crichton, for 








But put your best foot forward, or 


he seem'd 








I fear 


All-perfect, finish'd to the finger nail. 








That we .shall mi.ss the mail: and 










here it comes 


And once I ask'd him of his early 








With five at top : as quaint a four-in- 


life. 








hand 


And his first passion ; and he an- 








As you shall see— three pyebalds and 


swer'd me ; 








"""■ 


And well his words became him : was 

he not 
A full-cell'd honeycomb of eloquence 
Stored from all flowers.' Poet-like 








EDWIN MORRIS; 


he spoke. 








OR, THE LAKE. 


• My love for Nature is as old as I ; 
But thirty moons, one honeymoon to 


6V0 








ME, my plea.sant rambles by the 


that, 


. 








lake. 


And three rich sennights more, my 










My sweet, wild, fresh three quarters 


love for her. 










of a year. 


Mv love for Nature and my love for 








^ 


My one Oasis in the dust and drouth 


' her, 


H 






mi 1 •! I \ 1 LLjy 




1 




or, The Lake. 



Of different ages, like twin-sisters 

grew, 
Twin-sisters differently beautiful. 
To some full music rose and sank the 

And some full music seem'd to move 

and change 
With all the varied changes of the 

dark, 
And either twilight and the day be- 

For daily hope fulfill'd. to rise again 
Revolving toward fulfilment, made it 



Or this or something like to this he 

spoke. 
Then said the fat-faced curate Ed- 
ward Bull, 
' I take it, God made the woman 

for the man, 
And for the good and increase of the 

world. 
A pretty face is well, and this is well. 
To have a dame indoors, that trims 

us up. 
And keeps us tight ; but these unreal 

ways 
Seem but the theme of writers, and 

indeed 
Worn threadbare. Man is made of 

solid stuff. 
I say, God made the woman for the 

man. 
And for the good and increase of the 

world.' 

' I'arson,' said I, ' you pitch the pipe 

too low : 
But I have sudden touches, and can 

run 
My faith beyond my practice into his ; 
Tho' if, in dancing after Letty Hill, 
I do not hear the bells upon my cap, 
I scarce have other music : yet say on. 
What should one give to light on 

such a dream .' ' 
I ask'd him half -sardonically. 

'Give.' 
Give all thou art,' he answer'd, and a 

light 





Of laughter dimpled in 

' I would have hid her 
heart. 

To save her little finger from a scratch 

No deeper than the skin : my ears 
could hear 

Her lightest breath ; her least remark 
was worth 

The experience of the wise. I went 
and came ; 

Her voice fled always thro' the sum- 
mer land ; 

I spoke her name alone. Thrice- 
happy days ! 

The flower of each, those moments 



Were not his words delicious, I a 
beast 

To take them as I did .' but some- 
thing jarr'd ; 

Whether he spoke too largely ; that 
there seem'd 

A touch of something false, some 
self-conceit. 

Or over-smoothness : howsoe'er it 

He scarcely hit my humor, and f k' : 

' Friend Edwin, do not think your- 
self alone 

Of all men happy. .Shall not Love to 
me. 

As in the Latin song I learnt at 
school. 

Sneeze out a full God-bless-you right 
and left ? 

But you can talk : yours is a kindly 

I have, I think, — Heaven knows — as 

much within ; 
Have, or should have, but for a 

thought or two, 
That like a purple beech among the 

greens 
Looks out of place : 'i 

want in her : 
It is my shyness, or my self-di: 
Or something of a wayward modern 





Edwin Morris ; or. The Lake. 




Then said the fat-faced curate, Kd- 

ward Bull : 
' Uod made the woman for the use of 

man, 
And for the good and increase of the 

world.' 
And I and Edwin laughed ; and now 

we paused 
About the windings of the marge to 

hear 
The soft wind blowing over meadowy 

holms 
And alders, garden-isles ; and now we 

left 
The clerk behind us, I and he, and 

ran 
By ripply shallows of the lisping lake. 
Delighted with the freshness and the 

sound. 

But, when the bracken rusted on 

their crags. 
My suit had wither'd, nipt to death 

by him 
That was a God, and is a lawyer's 

clerk. 
The rentroU Cupid of our rainy isles. 
'Tis true, we met ; one hour I had, no 

more : 
She sent a note, the seal an Elle roiis 

The close, ' Your Letty, only yoins ; ' 

and this 
Thrice underscored. The friendly 

mist of morn 
Clung to the lake. I boated over, ran 
My craft aground, and heard with 

beating heart 
The Sweet-Gale rustle round the 

shelving keel ; 
And out I stept, and up 1 crept : she 



In some ne 

stole 
Upon us and departed : 

cried, 
' O leave me ! ' ' Never, dearest, 

never : here 
1 brave the worst : ' and while we 

stood like fools 
Embracing, all at once a score of 

pugs 
And poodles yell'd within, and out 

they came 
Trustees and Aunts and Uncle.-. 

•What, with him ! 
Go • (shrill'd the colton-spinning cho- 
rus) ; ' him ! ' 
I choked. Again they shriek VI the 

burthen — ' Him ! ' 
Again with hands of wild rejection 

'(io!— 
Girl, get you in ! ' She went— and in 

one month 
Tliey wedded her to sixty thousand 

pounds. 
To lands in Kent and me.ssuages in 

York, 
And slight Sir Robert with his waterv 

smile 
And educated whisker. But for nic. 
They set an ancient creditor to work : 
It seems I broke a close with force 



There came 

king 

To greet th 



ved, 
Like Proserpii 




Enna, gathering 
whistled thrice : 



Then low and 

and she, 
She turn'd, we closed, we kiss'd 

swore faith, I breathed 



nystic token from tlie 

heriff. needless comt- 

I read, and fled by night, and flying 

turn'd: 
Her taper gliniiner'd in the lake be- 

I turn'd once more, close-button'd to 

the storm ; 
So left the place, left Edwin, nor have 

seen 
Him since, nor heard of her, nor 

cared to hear. 

Nor cared to hear ? perhaps : yet 
long ago 

I have pardon'd little Lettv i not in- 
deed. 

It may be, for her own dear sake but 
this. 





For in the dust and d 

don life 
She moves among my visions of the 

lake, 
While the prime swallow dips his 

While the gold-lily blows, and over- 
head 

The light cloud smoulders on the 
summer crag. 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 

Ai.THo' I be the basest of mankind, 

Froin scalp to sole one slough and 
crust of sin, 

Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce 
meet 

For troops of devils, mad with blas- 
phemy, 

I will not cease to grasp the hope I 
hold 

Of saintdom, and to clamor, mourn 
and sob. 



storms ot prayer. 
Have mercy, Lord, and take away my 

Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty 
God, 
This not be all in vain, that thrice ten 



Tlir 



ultiplied by supe 



ngs. 



s, fevers 



In hungers and in thi 

cold, 
In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous 

throes and cramps, 
A sign betwi.Nt the meadow and the 

cloud. 
Patient on this tall pillar 1 have borne 
Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and 

.And I had ho|)ed that ere this period 



: caught me up into 
se weather-beaten 




meed of saints, 
and the i 
O lake the meaning, Lord : 
breathe. 
Not whisper, any murmur 

plaint. 
Pain heap'd ten-hundred-fold 



thii 



ndred-fold. 



Less burthe 

bear, 
Than were those lead-like tons of sin. 

that crush'd 
My spirit fiat before thee. 

OLord, Lord, 
Thou knowest I bore this better at 

the first. 
For I was strong and hale of body 

then ; 
And tho' my teeth, which now are 

dropt away. 
Would chatter with the cold, and all 

my beard 
Was tagg'd with icy fringes in the 

moon, 
I drown'd the whoopings of the owl 

with sound 
Of pious hymnsaud ps.ilms, andsome- 

An angel stand and watch nie, as I 

sang. 
Now am I feeble grown ; my end 

draws nigh ; 
I hope my end draws nigh : half deaf 

So that I scarce 

hum 
About the colum 

blind, 
And scarce can i 

know : 
And both my thighs 

the dew ; 
Yet cease I not to clamor and to cr)'. 
While my stiff spine can hold my 

weary head, 
Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from 

the stone, . 
Have mercy, mercy : take away my 

O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my 

Who mav be saved .' who is it mav be 



m hear the people 
's base, and almost 
cognize the fields I 
tted with 






A 


66 S/. Shneoit Styliies. 


1 




Who may be made a saint, if I fail 


Sucking the damps for drink, and eat- 






here ? 


Except the spare chance-gift of those 


. 








.Show me the man hath sufter'd more 








e^ than I. 


that came tAj 






For did not all thy martyrs die one 


To touch my body and be heal'd, and 






death ? 


live: 






For either thev were stoned, or cruci- 


And they say then that I work'd mira- 






fied, 


cles, 






Or burn'd in fire, or boil'd in oil, or 


Whereof my fame is loud amongst 






sawn 


mankind. 






In twain beneath the ribs ; but I die 


Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. 






here 


Thou, O God, 






To-day, and whole years long, a life 


Knowest alone whether this was or no. 






of death. 


Have mercy, mercy ! cover all my sin. 






Bear witness, if I could have found a 


Then, that I might be more alone 






(And heedfully I sifted all mv thought) 


with thee. 






Three years I lived upon a pillar, high 






More slowly-painful to subdue this 


Si.x cubits, and three years on one of 






home 


twelve ; 






Of sin, mv fiesh, which I despise and 


And twice three years I crouch'd on 






hate. 


one that rose 






I had not stinted practice, O my God. 


Twenty by measure; last of all, I 






For not alone this pillar-punish- 
ment. 


Twice ten long weary weary years to 






Not this alone I bore : but while I 


this. 






lived 


That numbers forty cubits from the 






In the white convent down the valley 


soil. 






there, 


I think that I have borne as much 






For many weeks about my loins I 


as this— 
Or else I dream— and for so long a 






The rope that haled the buckets from 


time. 






the well, 


If I may measure time by yon slow- 






Twisted as tight as I could knot the 


light. 






noose ; 


And this high dial, which my sorrow 






And spake not of it to a single soul. 


crowns— 






Until the ulcer, eating thro' my skin. 


.So much — even so. 






Betray'd my secret penance, so that all 


And yet I know not well. 






My brethren marvell'd greatly. More 


For that the evil ones come here, and 






than this 


say. 






I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest 


'Fall down, O Simeon: thou hast 






all. 


suffer'd long 






Three winters, that my soul might 


For ages and for ages ! ' then they 






grow to thee. 


prate 






I lived up there on yonder mountain 


Of penances I cannot have gone thro', 






side. 


Perplexing me with lies; and oft I 






My right leg chain'd into the crag, I 


fall, 






_- lay 


Maybe for months, in such blind 






1 ^ Pent in a roofless close of ragged 


lethargies ^ 








stones; ^ 


That Heaven, and Earth, and Time 












are choked. 










"''""' mist, t°Tt«Tcl^ '" "''" "'"^ 


But yet 










Black'd with thy branding thunder. 


Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all 








1 


and sometimes 

K, , - 


the saints 


] 




II 1 12 i. 1 1 Li-iv 












Si Simeon StylUes. 



Enjoy themselves in heaven, and men 

on earth 
House in the shade of comfortable 

roofs, 

Sit with their wives by fires, eat whole- 
some food. 
And wear warm clothes, and even 

beasts have stalls, 
I, 'tween the spring and downfall of 

the light, 
Bow down one thousand and two 

hundred times. 
To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the 

saints; 
f )r in the night, after a little sleep, 
I wake : the chill stars sparkle ; I am 

wet 
With drenching dews, or stiff with 

crackling frost. 
I wear an undress'd goatskin on my 

back ; 
A grazing iron collar grinds my 

neck ; 
And in my weak, lean arms I lift the 

And strive and wrestle with thee till I 

away my sin. 



A sinful man, conceived and bori 
' Tis their own doing : this is noni 



Lay it i 



blame for 



this 



That here come those that worship 

me? Ha! ha! 
They think that I am somewhat. 

What am I ? 
The silly people take me for a saint. 
And bring me offerings of fruit and 

flowers : 
And I, in truth (thou wilt bear witness 

here) 
Have all in all endured as much, and 



Thnn many just and holy men, whose 
Are register'd and calendar'd for 



Good people, you do ill to kneel to 





What Is it I can h. 

this? 
I am a sinner viler than you all. 
It may be I have wrought some 

And cured some halt and maim'd ; but 

what of that ? 
It may be, no one, even among the 

saii^s. 
May match his pains with mine ; but 

what of that ? 
Yet do not rise ; for you may look on 



And ii. 
Speak ! 



uur looking you may kneel to 

kI. 

s there any of you halt or 



I think you know I ha 

with Heaven 
From my long penance : let him speak 

his wish. 
Yes, I can heal him. Power goes 

forth from me. 
They say that they are heal'd. Ah, 

hark ! they shout 
' St. Simeon Stylites.' Why, if so, 
God reaps a harvest in me. O my 

God reaps a harvest in thee. If this 

be. 
Can I work miracles and not be saved ? 
told of any. They were 



This 



It cannot be but that I shall be saved ; 
Yea, crown'd a saint. They shout, 

' Behold a saint ! ' 
And lower voices saint me from above. 
Courage, St. Simeon! This dull 

chrysalis 
Cracks into shining wings, and hope 

ere death 
Spreads more and more and more, that 

God hath now 
.Sponged and made blank of crimeful 

record all 
My mortal archives. 

O my sons, mv sons, 
I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname 
Stylites, among me 
The watcher on the column ti 

end; 
I, Simeon, whose brain the sun 

h:ikcs; 





St. Simton Sfvlites. 



I, whose bald biDws in silem hours 

become 
Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now 
From my high nest of penance here 

IMoclaim 
That Pontius and Iscariot by my side 
Show'd like fair seraphs. On the 

coals I lay, 
A vessel full of sin ; all hell beneath 
Made me boil over. Devils plucU'd 

my sleeve, 
Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me. 
I smote them with the cross; they 

swarm'd again. 
In bed like monstrous apes they 

crush'd my chest : 
They flapp'd my light out as I read : 1 

saw 
Their faces grow between me and my 



ith hog- 



With colt-like whinn 

gish whine 
They burst mv jjraver. Yet this way 

was left, 
And by this way I 'scaped them. 

Mortify 
Your flesh, like me. with scourges 

and with thorns ; 
Smite, shrink not, spare not. If it may 

be, fast 
Whole Lents, and pray. I hardly, 

with slow steps, 
With slow, faint steps, and much 

exceeding pain, 
Have scrambled past those pits of fire, 

that still 
Sing in mine ears. But yield not me 

the praise : 
God only thro' his bounty hath thought 

fit, 
Among the powers and princes of 

this world, 
To make me an example to mankind. 
Which few can reach to. Yet I do 

not say 
But that a time may come — yea, even 



Now, now, his footsteps smite the 

threshold stairs 
Of life— I sav, that time is at the 




For I will leave my relics in your land, 
And you may carve a shrine about my 

And burn a fragrant lamp before my 

bones, 
When I am gather'd to the glorious 

saints. 
While I spake then, a sting of 

shrewdest |)ain 
Ran shrivelling thro' me, and a cloud- 
like change. 
In passing, with a grosser film made 

thick 
These heavy, horny eyes. The end ! 

the end ! 
Surely the end ! What's here ? a 

shape, a shade, 
A flash of light. Is that the angel 

there 
That holds a crown ? Come, blessed 

brother, come. 
I know thy glittering face. I waited 



are ready. What ! deiiv 



Nav, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I 

clutch it. Christ ! 
' Tis gone : 'tis here again ; the crown f 

the crown ! 
So now 'tis fitted on and grows to me. 
And from it melt the dews ol Paradise, 
.Sweet ! sweet I spikenard, and balm, 

and frankincense. 
Ah ! let me not be fool'd, sweet saints : 

I trust 
That I am whole, and clean, and meet 

for Heaven. 
Speak, if there be a priest, a man of 

God, 
Among vou there, and k t linn pres- 

ently 
Approach, and lean a ladder on the 

shaft, 
And climbing uj) into my airy home. 
Deliver me the blessed sacrament ; 
For by the warning of the Holy Ghost, 
I prophesy that I shall die to-night, 
A quarter before twelve. 

But thon, O Lord, 
Aid all this foolish people; let them 



take 
(iple, patter 
light. 



lead the 





The I'alkiiii! Oak. 



ALKING OAK. 

I >NCE more the gate beliiml me fal 
Once more before niv l.u.r 

I see the moulder'd Abbcv-u.ills, 
That stand within the chace. 

Heyond the lodge the city lies, 
Beneath its drift of smoke : 

And ah ! with what delighted eyes 
1 turn to yonder oak. 

For when my passion first began, ' 

Ere that, which in me burn'd, 
The love, that makes me thrice 

Conld hope itself return'd; 

hin the field 

faith appeal'd 



To yonder oak w 
1 spoke withoi 

And with a large 
Than Papist ii 



For oft I talk'd with him apart. 
And told him of ray choice. 

Until he plagiarized a heart. 
And answer'd with a voice. 

Tho' what he whisper'd under He 
None else could understand ; 

I found \\\m garrulouslv given, 
A babbler in the land. 



Say thou, whereon I carved her n; 

If ever maid or spouse. 
As fair as my Olivia, came 

To rest beneath thy boughs. — 

' O Walter, I have shelter'd here 
Whatever maiden grace 

The good old Summers, year by 
Made ripe in Sumner-chace : 





.\nd, issuing shorn and sleek. 
Would twist his girdle tight, and pat 
The girls upon the cheek, 

' Fre yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence, 
.And number'd bead, and shrift, 

Kluff Harry broke into the spence 
And turn'd the cowls adrift : 



.And I have seen some score 
Fresh faces, th.it would thr 
When his man-minded offset 
To chase the deer at five ; 


ii those 


And all that from the tow 
stroll, 
Till that wild wind made w 


1 would 
>rk 


n which the gloiimv brewer's 


soul 



' And I have shadow'd many a group 

Of beauties, that were born 
In teacup-times of hood and hoop. 



But since I heard hnii make replv 


About me leap'd and laugh'd 


Is many a wearv hour ; 


The modish Cupid of the day, 


'Twere well la question hun, and try 


And shrill'd his tinsel shaft. 


If vet he keeps the power. 






' 1 swear (and else may insects prick 


Hail, hidden to the knees in fern, 


Fachleaf into a gall) 


llroad Oak of Sumner-chace, 


This girl, for whom your heart is sick. 


Whose topmost branches can discern 


Is three times worth them all; 


The roofs of Sunmer-place ! 






' For those and theirs, by Nature's law. 



Have faded long ago ; 
But in these latter springs I saw 
Your own Olivia blow, 

' From when she gamboli'Ll on the 
greens 

A baby-germ, to when 
The maiden blossoms of he 

Could number five from t 





The Talking Oak. 



' I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain, 
{And liear me with thine ears,) 

That, tho' 1 circle in the grain 
Five hmidred rings of years— 

' Yet, since I first conld cast a shade, 

Did never creature pass 
So slightly, musically made. 

So light upon the grass : 

' For as to fairies, that will flit 
To make the greensward fresh, 

I hold them exquisitely knit. 
But far too spare of flesh.' 

Oh, hide thy knotted Iqiees in fern. 

And overlook the chace ; 
And from thy topmost branch discern 

The roofs of Sumner-place. 

But thou, whereon I carved her name, 
That oft hast heard my vows, 

Declare when last Olivia came 
To sport beneath thy boughs. 

' O yesterday, you know, the fair 

Was holden at the town ; 
Her father left his good arm-chair. 

And rode his hunter down. 

' And with him Albert came on his. 

I look'd at him with joy : 
As cowslip unto oxlip is. 

So seems she to the boy. 

' An hour had past — and, sitting 
straight 

Within the low-wheel'd chaise, 
Her mother trundled to the gate 

Behind the dappled grays. 

' But as for her, she stay'd at home, 
And on the roof she went. 

And down the way you used to come, 
She look'd with discontent. 

' She left the novel half-uncut 
Upon the rosewood shelf ; 

She left the new piano shut : 
She could not please herself. 





She sent her voice thro' all the holt 
Before her, and the park. 

' A light wind chased her on the wing. 
And in the chase grew wild. 

As close as might be would he cling 
.■\bout the darling child : 

' But light as any wind that blows 

So fleetly did she stir, 
The flower, she touch'd on, dipt and 
rose. 

And turn'd to look at her. 

' And here she came, and round me 
play'd, 

And sang to me the whole 
Of those three stanzas that you made 

About my " giant bole ; " 

'And in a fit of frolic mirth 
She strove to span my waist : 

Alas, I was so broad of girth, 
I could not be embraced. 

'I wish'd myself the fair young beech 
That here beside me stands. 

That round me, clasping each in each. 
She might have lock'd her hands. 

' Yet seem'd the pressure thrice as 

As woodbine's fragile hold. 

Or when I feel about my feet 

The berried briony fold.' 

O muffle round thy knees with fern, 
And shadow Sumner-chace ! 

Long may thy topmost branch dis- 
cern 
The roofs of Sumner-place ! 

But tell me, did she read the name 

r carved with many vows 
When last with throbliing heart I 

To rest beneath thy boughs? 

' O yes, she wander'd round and round 
These knotted knees of mine. 

And found, and kiss'd the name she 
found, 
And sweetly niurmur'd thine. 





The Talkiiis Oak. 



drop trembled from its source, 
And down my surface crept. 
My sense of touch is something coarse, 
But I believe she wept. 

'Then flush'd her cheek with rosy 
light. 

She glanced across the plain ; 
But not a creature was in sight : 

She kiss'd me once again. 

• Her kisses were so close and kind. 

That, trust me on my word. 
Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind, 
But yet my sap was stirr'd : 

' And even into my inmost ring 

A pleasure I discern'd. 
Like those blind motions of the 
Spring, 

That show the year is turn'd. 

• Thrice-happy he that may caress 

The ringlet's waving balm — 
The cushions of whose touch may press 
The maiden's tender palm. 

• I, rooted here among the groves 

But languidly adjust 
Mv vapid vegetable loves 
With anthers and with dust : 

' For ah ! my friend, the days were 
brief 
Whereof the poets talk. 
When that, which breathes within the 
leaf, 
Colud slip its bark and walk. 

' But could I, as in times foregone. 
From spray, and branch, and stem. 

Have suck'd and gather'd into one 
The life that spreads in them, 

' She had not found me so remiss ; 

But lightly issuing thro', 
I would have paid her kiss for kiss. 

With usury thereto.' 

O flourish high, with leafy towers. 

And overlook the lea. 
Pursue thy loves among the bowers 

Hut leave thou mine to me. 





O flourish, hidden deep in fe 
Old oak, I love thee well ; 

A thousand thanks for what I 
And what remains to tell. 



' 'Tis little more : the day was warm ; 

At last, tired out with play. 
She sank her head upon her arm 

And at my feet she lay. 

' Her eyelids dropp'd their silken 
eaves. 

I breathed upon her eyes 
Thro' all the summer of my leaves 

A welcome mix'd with sighs. 

' I took the swarming sound of 
life— 

The music from the town— 
The murmurs of the drum and fife 

And luU'd them in my own. 

' Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip, 

To light her shaded eye ; 
A second fiutter'd round her lip 

Like a golden butterfly ; 

' A third would glimmer on her 
neck 

To make the necklace shine ; 
Another slid, a sunny fleck. 

From head to ancle fine, 

' Then close and dark my arms I 
spread, 

And shadow'd all her rest — 
Dropt dews upon her golden head, 

-\n acorn in her breast. 

' But in a pet she started up. 
And pluck'd it out, and drew 

My little oakling from the cup, 
And flung him in the dew. 

' And yet it was a graceful gift — 

I felt a pang within 
As when I see the woodman lift 

His axe to slay my kin. 

' I shook him dc 

The finest on 
He lies beside thee on thi 

O kiss him once for me 





Love and Diitv. 



• O kiss liini twice and thrice for me, 

That have no lips to kiss, 
For never yet was oak on lea 

Shall grow so Tair as this.' 

Step deeper yet in herb and fern, 
Look further thro' the chace, 

Spread upward till thy boughs discern 
The front of Sumner-place. 

This fruit of thine by Love is blest, 

That but a moment lay 
Where fairer fruit of Love may rest 

Some happy future day. 

I kiss it twice, I kiss it thrice. 
The warmth it thence shall win 

To riper life may magnetize 
The baby-oak within. 

But thou, while kingdoms overset. 
Or lapse from hand to hand. 

Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet 
Thine acorn in the land. 

May never saw dismember thee. 

Nor wielded axe disjoint. 
That art the fairest-spoken tree 

From here to Lizard-point. 

O rock upon thy towery-top 
All throats that gurgle sweet ! 

All starry culmination drop 
Balm-d'ews to bathe thy feet ! 

All grass of silky feather grow — 
And while he sinks or swells 

The full south-breeze around thee 
blow 
The sound of minster bells. 

The fat earth feed thv branchy root, 
That under deeply strikes ! 

The northern morning o'er thee shoot, 
High up, in silver spikes! 

Nor ever lightning char thy grain. 

But, rolling as in sleep. 
Low thunders bring the mellow rain. 

That makes thee broad and deep ! 




olen 



oath. 



Will I to Olive plight my troth, 
And gain her for my bride. 




nay fall. 



And when uiv marriage mi 
She, Dryad-like, shall \\_.._ 

Alternate leaf and acorn-ball 
In wreath about her hair. 

And I will work in prose and rhyme. 
And praise thee more iu both 

Than bard has honor'd beech or lime, 
Or that Thessalian growth. 

In which the swarthy ringdove sat, 
And mystic sentence spoke ; 

And more than England honors that. 
Thy famous brother-oak,. 

Wherein the younger Charles abode 
Till all the paths were dim, 

And far below the Roundhead rode. 
And humm'd a surly hymn. 



LOVE AND DUTY. 



rthlv 



Of love that never found hi; 

close. 
What sequel .' Streaming eyes and 

breaking hearts? 
Or all the same as if he had not been ? 
Not so. Shall Error in the round 

of time 
Still father Truth.' O shall the 

braggart shout 
For some blind glimpse of freedom 

work itself 
Thro' madness, hated by the wise, to 



Systen 



:ipnv 



itself be 



The cloudv porch oft opening on the 

Sun'i' 
And only he, this wonder, dead. 

become 
Mere highway dust ? or year by year 

Sit brooding in the ruins of a life. 
Nightmare of youth, the spectre of 
himself ? 
If this were thus, if this, indeed. 





Love and Duty. 



Better the narrow brain, the stony 
heart, 

The staring eye glazed o'er with sap- 
less days, 

The long mechanic pacings to and 
fro. 

The set gray life, and apathetic end. 

F.ut am I not the nobler thro' thy 



three times less i 



vorthy ! 



likewise 



Art more thro' Love, and greater 

than thy years, 
The Sun will run his orbit, and the 

Moon 
Her circle. Wait, and Love himself 

will bring 
The drooping flower of knowledge 

changed to fruit 
Of wisdom. Wait : my faith is large 

in Time, 
And that which shapes it to some 

perfect end. 
Will some one say. Then why not 

ill for good .' 
Why took ye not your pastime .' To 

My work shall answer, since I knew 

the right 
.\nd did it ; for a man is not as God, 
lint then most Godlike being most a 



— So let me think 



well for thee 
ace, my 



Ill-fated that I am, what I 
Whose foresight preacht 

heart so slow 
To feel it ! For ho%v hard it seem'd 

to nie, 

id thro' half 

I )ne earnest, earnest moment upon 

Then not to dare to see ! when thy 

low voice. 
Faltering, would break its syllables, 

to keep 
My own full-tuned, — hold passion in a 

And not leap forth and fall about thy 
neck, 

.\nd on thy bosom (deep desired re- 
lief!) 



Rain out the heavy 

weigh'd 
Upon my brain, my 




For Love himself took part against 
himself 
To warn us off, and Duty loved of 

O this world's curse, — beloved but 

hated — came 
Like Death betwbtt thy dear embrace 

and mine. 
And crying, ' Who is this ? behold 

thy bride,' 
She push'd me from thee. 

If the sense is hard 
To alien ears, I did not speak to 

these — 
No, not to thee, but to thyself in 

Hard is my doom and thine: thou 

knowest it all. 
Could Love part thus.' was it not 

well to speak. 
To have spoken once.' It could not 

but be well. 
The slow sweet hours that bring us 

all things good. 
The slow .sad hours that bring us all 

things ill. 
And all good things from evil, brought 

the night 
In which we sat together and alone. 
And to the want, that hoUow'd all the 

heart. 
Gave utterance by the yearning of an 

eye. 
That burn'd upon its object thro' such 

tears 
As flow but once a life. 

The trance gave way 
To those caresses, when a hundred 

times 
In that last kiss, which never was the 

last, 
Farewell, like endless welcome, lived 

and died. 
Then follow'd counsel, comfort, 

the words 
That make a man feel 

speaking truth ; 
Till now the dark was worn, and over 

head 





The lights of sunset 

mix'd 
In that brief night ; the 

that paused 
Among her stars to hear us ; stars 

that hung 
Love-charm 'd to listen : all the wheels 

of Time 
Spun round in station, but the end 

had come. 
O then like those, who clench their 

nerves to rush 
Upon their dissolution, we two rose, 
There^losing like an individual 

In one blind cry of passion and of pain, 
Like bitter accusation ev'n to death. 
Caught up the whole of love and 

And bade adieu for ever. 

Live — yet live — 
Shall sharpest pathos blight us, 

knowing all 
Life needs for life is possible to will — 
Live happy; tend thv flowers; be 

tended by 
j\ly blessing! .Should my Shadow 

cross thy thoughts 
Too sadiy for their peace, remand it 

For calmer hours to Memorv's dark- 

e..t hold, 
If not to be forgotten — not at once — 
Not all forgotten. Should it cross thy 

O might it come like one that looks 

With quiet eves unfaithful to the 

tiulh. 
And point thee forward to a distant 

liL;ht. 
Or seem to lift a burthen from thy 

heart 



And leave thee fre 


er, till thou wake 


refresh 'd 




Then when the firs 


t low matin-chirii 


hath grown 




Full quire, and m 


orning driv'n her 


plow of pear 




Far furrowing into 


ight the mounded 






Leyond the fair gre 


en field and east- 




Well, you shall have that song which 

Leonard wrote : 
It was last summer on a tour in 

Wales : 
Old James was with me : we that dav 

had been 
Up Snowdon ; and I wish'd for Leon- 
ard there. 
And found him in Llanberis : then we 

crost 
Between the lakes, and clamber'd half 

way up 
The counter side ; and that same song 

of his 
He told me; for I banter'd him, and 

swore 
They said he lived shut up within 

himself, 
A tongue-tied Poet in the feverous 

days, 
That, setting the he-cc niiuh before the 

how. 
Cry, like the daughters of the horse- 
leech, ' Give, 
Cram us with all,' but count not me 

the herd ! 
To which ' They call me what thev 

will,' he said: 
'But I was born too late: the fair 

new forms, 
That float about the threshold of an 



Like truths of Science 

caught — 
Catch me who can, ; 

catcher crown'd — 
Are taken by the forelock. Let it be 
But if you care indeed to listen, heai 
These measured words, my work o 



g to be 
ake the 



' We sleep and wake and sleep, but 

all things move ; 
The Sun flies forward to his brother 

Sun; 
The dark Earth follows wheel'd in 

her ellipse; 
And human things returning on them- 

sel ves 
Move onward, leading up the golden 





' Ah, tlio' the times, when some 

new thought can bud, 
Ave but as poets' seasons when they 

flower. 

Vet oceans daily gaining on the land, 
JIave ebb and flow conditioning their 

march. 
And slow and sure comes up the 

golden year. 
' When wealth no more shall rest 

in mounded heaps. 
But smit with freer light shall slowly 

melt 
In many streams to fatten lower lands, 
And liiiht shall spread, and man be 

filler man 
Thro' all the season of the golden 

year. 
' Shall eagles not be eagles ? wrens 

be wrens .' 
If all the world were falcons, what of 

that ? 
The wonder of the eagle were the less, 
But he not less the eagle. Happy 

days 
Roll onward, leading up the golden 

' Fly, happy happy sails, and bear 

the Press ; 
Fly happy with the mission of the 

Cross ; 
Knit land to land, and blowing haven- 
ward 
With silks, and fruits, and spices, 

clear of toll. 
Enrich the markets of the golden year. 
' But we grow old. Ah I when shall 

all men's good 
Be eaci) man's rule, and universal 

Peace 
Lie like a shaft of light across the 

land, 
And like a lane of beams athwart the 

sea. 
Thro' all the circle of the golden 

year ? ' 
Thus far he flow'd, and ended ; 

whereupon 
' .\h, folly!' in mimic cadence an- 

swer'd Jame.s — 
' .\h, folly ! for it lies so far away. 
Nut in our time, nor in our children's 





As on this vision of the golden year. 
Willi that he struck his staff against 



thei 



cks 



knu 



And broke it, — James, — you 

him,— old, but full 
Of force and choler, and firm upon his 

feet, 
And like an oaken stock in winter 

woods, 
O'erflourish'd with the hoary clem- 
atis: 
Then added, all in heat : 

'What stuff is this! 
Old writers push'd Hie happy season 

back, — 
The more fools they, — we forward : 

dreamers both : 
You most, that in an age, when every 

hour 
Must sweat her si.\ty minutes to the 

death, 
Live on, God love us, as if the seeds- 
man, rapt 
Upon the teeming harvest, should not 

plunge 
His hand into the bag: but well I 

know 
That unto him who works, and feels 

he works, 
This same grand year is ever at the 

doors.' 
He spoke ; and, high above, I heard 

them blast 
The steep slate-quarrv, and the great 

echo flap 
And buffet round the hills, from bluff 

to bluff. 



ULYSSES. 

It little profits that an idle king. 

iiy this still hearth, among these bar- 
ren crags, 

Match'd with an aged wife, I 
and dole 

Unequal laws unto a savage race. 

That hoard, and sleep, and fee \, .-.id 





lom travel : I will drink 
o the lees : all times I have eii- 

joy'd 
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both 

with those 
That loved me, and alone ; on shore, 

and when 
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hya- 

des 
Vext the dim sea : I am become a 

name ; 
For always roaming with a hungry 

heart 
Much liave I seen and known; cities 

of men 
And manners, climates, councils, gov- 

Myself not least, but honor'd of them 

all; 
And drunk delight of battle with my 

peers, 
Far on the ringing plains of windy 

Troy. 
I am a part of all that I have met; 



To 



ill experience is an arch where- 

thro' 
ms that untravell'd world, whose 

margiir fades 
:ver and for ever when I movfe. 
dull it is to pause, to make an 

ust unburnish'd, not to shine in 



Life 



As though lo breathe were 

piled on life 
Were all too little, and of one to me 
Little remains : but every hour is saved 
From that eternal silence, something 

more, 
A bringer of new things; and vile it 

For some three suns to store and 

hoard myself. 
And this gray spirit yearning in desire 
To follow knowledge like a sinking 



most bound of hu 




the sceptre and the 
discerning to fulfil 




This labor, b)' slow prudence i 

mild 
A rugged people, and thro' ; 

grees 
Subdue them to the useful and the 

good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the 

sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 
L> offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods. 
When I am gone.' He works his 

work, I mine. 
There lies the port ; the vessel 

puffs her sail : 
There gloom the dark broad seas. 

My mariners. 
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, 

and thought with me — 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and op- 
posed 
Free hearts, free foreheads — you and 

I are old ; 
Old age hath yet his honor and his 

toil; 
Death closes all : but something ere 

the end. 
Some work of noble note, may yet be 

done. 
Not unbecoming men that strove with 

Gods. 
The lights begin to twinkle from the 

rocks : 
The long day wanes : the slow moon 

climbs : the deep 
Moans round with many voices. 

Come, my friends, 
' Tis not too late to seek a newer 

world. 
Push off, and sitting well in order 

smite 
The sounding furrows ; for my pur- 
pose holds 
To sail bevond the sunset, and the 

baths 
Of all the western stars, until I die. 
It may be that the gulfs will wash us 

down : 
It may be we shall touch the Happy 

'isles. 
And see the great Achil 




p^ 




^ i 




i 


r\^ 






. JHi 


- 


-All 'n IIk .,J |';..f'n^'....v<', ( 



1 










S\'] 1 1 -! ^=^=^=4^ 


>v 






5 


Tithonus. 77 


<-X 




Tho' much is taken, much abides ; and 


To dwell in presence of immortal 




. 


tho' 


youth. 










We are not now that strength which 


Immortal age beside immortal vouth, ||| 






tXo in old days 


And all I was, in ashes. Can thv Oo 






Moved earth and heaven ; that which 


love, 






we are, we are ; 


Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even 






One equal temper of heroic hearts, 


now. 






Made weak by time and fate, but 


Close over us, the silver star, thy 






strong in will 


guide. 






*'To strive, to seek, to find, and not to 


Shines in those tremulous eyes that 






yield. 


fill with tears 
To hear me ? Let me go : take back 

thy gift : 
Why should a man desire in any 






TITHONUS. 


To varVfrom the kindly race of 






The woods decay, the woods decav 


men. 






and fall. 


Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance 






The vapors weep their burthen to the 


Where all should pause, as is most 






ground. 


meet for all .' 






Man comes and tills the field and lies 








beneath, 


A soft air fans the cloud apart ; 






And after many a summer dies the 


there comes 






swan. 


A glimpse of that dark world where I 






Me onlv cruel immortalitv 


was born. 






Consumes: i wither slowly in thine 


Once more the old mysterious glim- 




j 


arms. 


mer steals 






Here at the quiet limit of the world, 
A white-hair'd shadow roaming like a 


From thy pure brows, and from thy 




i 


shoulders pure. 




1 


dream 


And bosom beating with a heart 




1 


The ever-silent spaces of the East, 


renew'd. 




1 


Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls 


Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the 






of morn. 


gloom. 
Thy sweet eves brighten slowly close 






Alas 1 for this gray shadow, once a 


to mine. 








Ere yet thev blind the stars, and the 






So glorious in his beauty and thv 


wild 'team 






choice. 


Which love thee, yearning for thv 






Who madest him thv chosen, that he 


voice, arise. 






seem'd 


And shake the darkness from their 






To his ^reat heart none other than a 


loosen' d manes. 






God ! 


And beat the twilight into flakes of 






I ask'd thee, ' Give me immortalitv.' 


fire. 






Then didst thou grant mine askiiig 








with a smile, 


Lo ! ever thus thou growest beauti- 






Like wealthy men who care not how 


ful 






^ they give. 


In silence, then before thine answer 






'Y* But thy strong Hours indignant 


given, cy 






. 


work'd their wills, 


Departest, and thv tears are on mv 










And beat me down and marr'd and 


cheek. 










wasted me. 












And tho' thev 'could not end me, left 


Why wilt thou ever scare me with 








^ 


me maim'd 


thy tears. 


1 




HI 12 I ! 1 IlIV 












Locksky Hall. 



'The Gods 

their gifts.' 

Ay me ! ay me ! with what another 
heart 
In days tar-off, and with what other 



I used to watch— if 

vvatch'd — 
The lucid 



be 



that 
lutline forming round thee ; 
curls kindle into sunny 
change, and 



Changed with thy my 

felt my blood 
Glow with the glow that slowly crim- 

son'd all 
Thy presence and thy portals, while I 

lay, 
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, crowing 

dewy-warm 
With kisses balmier than half-opening 

buds 
Of April, and could hear the lips that 

kiss'd 

vhat of wild 




Like that strange song I heard Apollo 

sing. 
While llion like a mist rose into 

towers. 

Yet hold me not for ever in thine 

East : 
How can my nature longer mix with 

thine ;■ 
Coldly thv rosy shadows bathe me, 

cold 
Are all thy lights, and cold my wrin- 
kled feet 
Upon thv glimmering thresholds, 

when the steam 
Floats up from those dim fields about 

the homes 
Of happy men that have the power to 

die. 
And grassy barrows of the happier 

dead. 
Release me, and restore me to the 



gro 



md; 



;est all things, thou wilt see 
luy grave : 
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by 

morn ; 
I earth in earth forget these empty 

courts, 
And thee returning on thy silver 
heels. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 



Comrades, leave me here a litth 
Leave me here, and when you wa 



while as yet tis early mom : 
me, sound upon the bugle-horn. 



'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call, 
Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall ; 

Lockslev Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts. 
And the' hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. 

Many a night from vonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest. 
Did 1 look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. 



ising thro' the mellow shade, 
ngled m a silver braid. 



Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime 
With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time ; 






Loikslcy Hall. 




When the centuries behind me lilce a fruitful land reposed ; 
When I clung to all the present for the promise that it, closed : 

When I dipt into the future far as human 
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the v 

In the Spring a fuller crimson conies u|)on the robin's breast ; 
In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest ; 

In the Spring a livelier iris chai 
In the Spring a young man's fa 

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young. 
And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung. 

And I said, ' My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me. 
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee.' 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and a light. 
As I have seen the rosy red Hushing in the northern night. 

And she turn'd — her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs — 
All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes- 
Saying, ' I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong ; ' 
Saying, ' Dost thou love me, cousin ? ' weeping, ' I have loved thee long 

Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands ; 
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. 

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might ; 
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight. 

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring, 
And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fulness of the Spring. 

Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships. 
And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips. 



Falser than .ill fancv failioms, falser than all songs have sung. 
Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue! 

Is it well to wish thee happy .' — hav 
On a range of lower feelings and a 

wer to his level day by day. 

ing coarse to sympathize with clay. 

\s the husband is, the wife is : 
\nd the grossness of his natun 






What is this ? his eyes are heav 
Go to him : it is thy duty : Iciss ' 

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought : 

Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with tliy lighter thought. 



Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace, 
Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. 



its that sin against the strength of youth ! 
that warp us from the living truth ! 



sed be the sickly forms that <; 
sed be the gold'that gilds the 



Am I mad, that I should . 
I will pluck it from my bo: 

Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years should come 
As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery home. 

Where is comfort .' in division of the records of the mind ? 
Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind ? 



Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore.' 
No— she never loved me truly: love is love for evermore. 

Comfort ? comfort scorn'd of devils ! this is truth the poet sings. 
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. 

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, 
In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. 

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall. 
Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. 

•n a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep, 
thy widow'd marriage-pillows, lo the tears that thou wilt weep. 

ju shalt hear the ' Never, nev 






but Nature brings thee solace ; for a tender voice will cry. 
1 IS a purer life than thine ; a lip to drain thy trouble dry. 

Baby lips will laugh me down : my latest rival brings thee rest. 
Baby fingers, wa.\en touches, press me from the mother's breast. 

O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due. 
Half is thine and half is his : it will be worthy of the two. 

(J, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part. 

With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. 

' They were dangerous guides the feelings — she herself was not exempt — 
Truly, she herself had suffer'd ' — Perish in thy self-contempt ! 

Overlive it — lower yet — be happy ! wherefore should I care .' 
I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. 

What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these ? 
Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys. 

Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets overflow, 
I have but an angry fancy : what is that which I should do.' 

I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground. 

When the ranks are roll'd in vapor, and the winds are laid with sound. 

helps the hurt that Honor feels, 
nr, snarling at each other's heels. 

Can I but relive in sadness.' I will turn that earlier page. 
Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother-Age! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife. 
When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life ; 

Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield, 
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his fatlier's field, 

And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn. 
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn ; 



be gone before him then, 
in among the throngs of men 

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something 

That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do 






Lockskx Hall. 




eaveiis fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, 
' purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales ; 

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew 
From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue ; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm. 
With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder-storm 



I In the Parliament of man, the 

There the common sense of i 
And the kindly earth shall si 

So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro" me left me dry, 
Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye ; 

Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint : 
Science moves, but slowly slowly, creeping on from point to point : 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion creeping nigher, 
Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying fire. 

I Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs. 
And the thoughts of men are widen 'd with the process of the suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, 
Tho' the deep heart ,of existence beat forever like a boy's ? 



Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast, 
Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest. 

Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-horn. 
They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn : 



alder'd string ? 
3 slight a thing. 



Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine. 
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine — 

Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for some retreat 
Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat; 

Id Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starr'd ; — 
:rampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. 






Locksky Hall. 




Or to burst all links o£ liabit — there to wander far away, 
On from island unto island at the gateways of the day. 

Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, 
Breadths of.tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise. 

European flag, 
iwings the trailer from the crag ; 

Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree — 
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. 

There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind. 
In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. 

There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and breathing space; 
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. 

Iron jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall run, 
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun ; 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks, 
Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books — 

Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I know my words are wild. 
But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. 

foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains, 
:r pleasures, like a beast with lower pains ! 

.Mated with a squalid savage— -what to me were sun or clime? I 
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time — 

I that rather held it better men should perish one by one. 

Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon ! 

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range. 
Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change. 

Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the vounger day : 
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. 

Mother- .Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun : 

Kift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the Sun. 

O, I see the crescent promise of mv spirit hath not .set. 
-Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall ! 
Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. 

Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, 
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or 
For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. 






GODIVA. 

/ waited for the train at Coventry ; 
I hungwith grooms and porters on the 

bridge. 
To watch the three tall spires ; and 

there I shaped 
The eilfs ancient legend into this : — 
Xot only we, the latest seed of 

Time, 
New men, that in the flying of a wheel 
Cry down the past, not only we, that 

prate 
Of rights and wrongs, have loved the 

people well. 
And loathed to see them overtaxed; 

but she 
Did mole, and underwent, and over- 
came. 
The woman of a thousand sunmiers 

back, 
Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who 

ruled 
In Coventry : for when he laid a tax 
Upon his town, and all the mothers 

brought 
Their children, clamoring, ' If we jjay, 

we starve ! ' 
She sought her lord, and found him, 

where he strode 
About the hall, among his dogs, alone, 
His beard a foot before him, and his 

hair 
A yard behind. She told him of their 

And pray'd him, ' If they pay this tax, 

thev starve.' 
Whereat 'he stared, replying, half- 
amazed, 
• Vou would not let your little finger 

ache 
For such as these ? '—' But I would 

die,' said she. 
He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and 

bv Paul : 
Then fillip'd at the diamond in her ear ; 
' Oh ay, ay, ay, you talk ! ' — ' Alas! ' 

she said, 

prove me what it is I would not 

do.' 
And from a heart as rough as Esau's 

hand. 





He answer'd, ' Ride you naked thro' 

the town. 
And I repeal it ; ' and nodding, as in 

He parted, with great strides among 

his dogs. 
So left alone, the passions of her 

mind. 
As winds from all the compass shift 

and blow, 
Made war upon each other for an hour. 
Till pity won. She sent a herald forth. 
And bade him cry, with sound of 

trumpet, all 
The hard condition; but that she 

would loose 
The people : therefore, as thev loved 

her well, 
From then till noon no foot should 

pace the street. 
No eye look down, she passing ; but 

that all 
Should keep within, door shut, and 

window barr'd. 
Then fled she to her inmost bower, 

and there 
Unclasp'd the wedded eagles of her 

belt, 
The grim Earl's gift ; but ever at a 

breath 
She linger'd, looking like a summer 

moon 
Half-dipt in cloud : anon she shook 

her head, 
And shower'd the rippled ringlets to 

her knee; 
Unclad herself in haste ; adown the 



eepnig sun- 
, until she 
found her 



Stole on ; and, like a . 

beam, slid 
From pillar unto pilh 

reach'd 
The gateway ; there sh 

palfrey trapt 
In purple blazon'd with armorial gold. 
Then she rode forth, clothed on 

with chastity: 
The deep air listen'd round her as she 

rode. 
And all the lo%v wind hardly breathed 

for fear. 
The little wide-mouth'd heads upon 

the spout 





The Day Dreatn—The Sleeping Palace. 



see : the barking 

JIade her cheek flame : her palfrey's 

foot-fall shot 
Light horrors thro' her pulses : the 

blind walls 
Were full of chinks and holes ; and 

overhead 
Fantastic gables, crowding, stared : 

but she 
Not less thro" all bore up, till, last, she 

saw 
The white-flower'd elder-thicket from 

the field 
Gleam thro' the Gothic archway in the 

wall. 
Then she rode back, clothed on with 

chastity : 
.\iid one low churl, compact of thank- 
less earth, 
The fatal byword of all years to come, 
Coring a little auger-hole in fear, 
Peep'd — but his eyes, before they had 

their will. 
Were shrivell'd into darkness in his 

head, • 
And dropt before him. So the 

Powers, who wait 
On noble deeds, cancell'd a sense 

misused ; 
And she, that knew not, pass'd : and 

all at once. 
With twelve great shocks of sound, 

the shameless noon 
Was clash'd and hammer'd from a 

hundred towers. 
One after one: but even then she 

gain'd 
Her bovver: whence reissuing, robed 

and crown'd, 
To meet her lord, she took the tax 

away 
And built herself an everlasting name. 



THE DAY-DREAM. 

PROLOGUE. 

O L.4DY FLOR.A, let me speak : 

.A. pleasant hour has passed awav 
While, dreaming on vour damask 
cheek. 





The dewy sister-eyelids lay. 
As by the lattice you reclined, 

I went thro' many wayward i 
To see you dreaming — and, behind, 

A summer crisp with shining woods. 
And I too dream'd, until at l.ist 

Across my fancy, brooding warm. 
The reflex of a legend past. 

And loosely settled into form. 
And would you have the thought I 
had, 

.\nd see the vision that I saw. 
Then take the broidery frame, and add 

A crimson to the quaint MacaH', 

Nor look with that too-earnest eye — 
The rhymes are dazzled from their 
place 
And order'd words asunder fly. 



THE SLEEPING PALACE. 



The varying year with blade and 
sheaf 
Clothes and reclothes the happy 
plains, 
Here rests the sap within the leaf. 
Here stays the blood along the 
veins. 
Faint shadows, vapors lightly curl'd. 
Faint murmurs from the meadows 
come. 
Like hints and echoes of the world 
To spirits folded in the womb. 



Soft lustre bathes the range of urn 

On every slanting terrace-lawn. 
The fountain to his place returns 

Dee]) in the garden l.ikewithdra 
Here droops the banner on the tov 

On the hall-heartlis the festal fi 
The peacock in his l.iurel bower, 

The parrot in his gilded wires. 



Roof-haunting martin 
eggs: 
In these, in those th< 





The Sleeping Beauty. 



The mantles from the golden pegs 
Droop sleepily : no sound is made, 

Not even of a gnat that sings. 
More like a picture seemeth all 

Than those old portraits of old kings, 
That watch the sleepers from the 
wall. 



and there 
The wrinkled steward at his task, 

The maid-of-honor blooming fair; 
The page has caught her hand in hi; 

Her lips are sever'd as to speak: 
His own are pouted to a kiss : 

The blush is fix'd upon her chee 



Till all the hundred summers pass, 

The beams, that thro' the Oriel 
shine. 
Make prisms in every carven glass, 

And beaker brimm'd with noble 
wine. 
Each baron at the banquet sleeps. 

Crave faces gather'd in a ring. 
His state the king reposing keeps. 

He must have been a jovial king. 



All round a hedge upshoots, and 
shows 

At distance like a little wood ; 
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes, 

And grapes with bunches red as 

All creeping plants, a wall of green 
Close-matted, bur and brake and 
briar, ' 

And glimpsing over these, just seen, 
High up, the topmost palace spire. 



When will the hundred summers die. 
And thought and time be born 
again. 

And newer knowledge, drawing nigh. 
Bring truth that sways the soul of 




Here all things 



As all w 
Come, Cai 
Pai) 
And bring the fated fairy Prince. 




■e order'd, ages sin 
and Pleasure, Ho 



THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 



Year after year unto her feet. 
She lying on her couch alone, 

Across the purple coverlet. 
The maiden's jet-black haii 



has 



t)n either side her tranced form 
Forth streaming from a braid of 
liearl : 

The slumbrous light is rich and warm. 
And moves not on the rounded 



II. 
The silk star-broider'd coverlid 

Unto her limbs itself doth mould 
Languidly ever ; and, amid 
Her full black ringlets downward 
roird. 
Glows forth each softly-shadow'd 

With bracelets of the diamond 

bright : 
Her constant beauty doth inform 
Stillness with love, and day with 

light. 



She sleeps : her breathings are not 
heard 
In palace chambers far apart. 
The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd 

That lie upon her charmed heart. 
She sleeps: on either hand upswells 
The gold-fringed pillow lightly 
prest : 
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever 
dwells 
A perfect form in peifect 





The Arrival— The Revival. 



THE ARRIVAL. 



All precious things, discover'd late, 

To those that seek them issue forth ; 
For love in sequel works with fate. 

And draws the veil from hidden 
worth. 
He travels far from other skies — 

His mantle glitters on the rocks — 
A fairv Prince, with joyful eyes. 

And lighter-footed than the fox. 



The bodies and the bones of those 
That strove in other days to pass, 

Are wither'd in the thorny close. 
Or scatter'd blanching on the grass. 

He gazes on the silent dead : 

'They perish'd in their daring 

This proverb flashes thro' his head, 
' The many fail : the one succeeds.' 



He comes, scarce knowing what he 
seeks : 
He breaks the hedge : he enters 
there : 
The color flies into his cheeks : 

He trusts to light on something 
fair; 
For all his life the charm did talk 
About his path, and hover near 
With words of promise in his walk. 
And whisper'd voices at his ear. 



Mc 



close and clo 
wind : 



his footsteps 



The Magic Music in his heart 
Beats quick and quicker, till he find 

The quiet chamber far apart. 
His spirit flutters like a lark. 

He stoops — to kiss her — on his 
knee. 
' Love, if thy tresses be so dark. 
How dark those hidden eyes must 
be!' 




THE REVIVAL 




A TOUCH, a kiss ! the charm was 
snapt. 
There rose a noise of striking clocks. 
And feet that ran, and doors that 
clapt. 
And barking dogs, and crowing 
cocks ; 
A fuller light illumined all, 

A breeze thro' all the garden swept, 

A sudden hubbub shook the hall, 

And sixty feet the fountain leapt. 



le steward 
scrawl'd. 
The fire shot up, the martin flew, 
The parrot scream'd, the peacock 
squall'd. 
The maid and page renew'd their 
strife. 
The palace bang'd, and buzz'd and 
clackt. 
And all the long-pent stream of life 
Dash'd downward i 



And last with these the king awoke. 

And in his chair himself uprear'd. 
And yawn'd, and rubb'd his face, and 
spoke, 

' By holy rood, a royal beard ! 
How say you? we have slept, my 
lords. 

My beard has grown into my lap.' 
The barons swore, with many words, 

'Twas but an after-dinner's nap. 

IV. 

' Pardy,' return'd the king, 'but still 

My joints are somewhat stiff or so. 
My lord, and shall we pass the bill 

I mention 'd half an hour ago.^' 
The chancellor, sedate and vain. 

In courteous words return'd reply: 
But dallied with his golden chain. 

And, smiling, put the question by. 





And on her lover's arm she leant 

And round her 
fold, 
And far across the hills they went 

In that new world which is tl 
old: 
Across the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim. 
And deep into the dying day 

The happy princess foUow'd him. 



'I'd sleep another hundred years, 

O love, for such another kiss ; ' 
' O wake for ever, love,' she hears, 

' O love, 'twas such as this and 
' this.' 
And o'er them many a sliding star. 

And many a merry wind was borne. 
And, stream'd thro' many a golden 
bar. 

The twilight melted into morn. 



' O eyes long laid in happy sleep ! ' 
' O happy "sleep, that liglitly fled ! ' 

' O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep ! ' 
' O love, thy kiss would wake the 
dead ! ' 



And, rapt thro' many a rosy change, 
The twilight died into the dark. 



' A hundred summers ! can it be .' 
And whither goest thou, tell me 

'O seek my father's court with me. 
For there are greater wonders 
there." 

.•\nd o'er the hills, and far away 
Beyond their utmost purple rim, 

Bevond the night, across the day. 
Thro' all the world she follow'd 




.So, Lady Flora, take my lay. 

And if you find no moral there, 
do, look in any glass and say, 

What moral is in being fair. 
Oh, to what uses shall we put 

The wildweed-flower that simply 
blows ? 
And is there any moral shut 

Within the bosom of the rose ? 



But any man that walks the mead. 

In bud or blade, or bloom, may 
find. 
According as his humors lead, 

A meaning suited to his mind. 
And liberal applications lie 

In Art like Nature, dearest friend ; 
.So 'twere to cramp its use, if I 

Should hook it to some useful end. 

L'ENVOI. 



You shake your head. A random 
string 

Your finer female sense offends. 
Well — were it not a pleasant thing 

To fall asleep with all one's friends; 
To pass with all our social ties 

To silence from the paths of men ; 
And every hundred years to rise 

And learn the world, and sleep 
again ; 
To sleep thro' terms of mighty wars. 

And wake on science grown to 

On secrets of the brain, the stars, 

As wild as aught of fairy lore; 
And all tliat else the years will show. 

The Poet-forms of stronger hours. 
The vast Republics that may grow. 

The Federations and the Powers ; 
Titanic forces taking birth 

In divers seasons, divers climes ; 
For we are Ancients of the earth. 

And in the morning of the times. 





Ep Hague — A mph ion. 



So sleeping, so aroused from sleep 

Thro' sunny decads new and strange, 
Or gay quinquenniads would we 
reap 
The flower and quintessence of 
change. 



Ah, yet would I — and would I might ! 

So much your eyes my fancy 
take — ' 
Be still the first to leap to light 

That I might kiss those eyes awake ! 
For, am I right, or am I wrong. 

To choose your own you did not 
care ; 
You'd have my moral from the song, 

And I will take my pleasure there : 
And, am I right or am I wrong, 

My fancy, ranging thro' and thro'. 
To search a meaning for the song, 

Perforce will still revert to you ; 
Nor finds a closer truth than this 

All-graceful head, so richly curl'd. 
And evermore a costly kiss 

The prelude to some brighter 
world. 



For since the time when Adam first 

Embraced his Eve in happy hour. 
And tvery bird of Eden burst 

In carol, every bud to flosver. 
What eyes, like thine, have waken'd 
hopes, 

What lips, like thine, so sweetly 
join'd ? 
Where on the double rosebud droops 

The fulness of the pensive mind ; 
Which all too dearly self-involved. 

Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to 
me; 
A sleep by kisses undissolved. 

That lets thee neither hear nor see : 
But break it. In the name of wife, 

And in the rights that name may 





EPILOGUE. 
So, Lady Flora, take my lay. 

And, if you find a meaning there, 
O whisper to your glass, and say, 

' What wonder, if he thinks me 
fair?' 
What wonder I was all unwise. 

To shape the song for your delight 
Like long-tail'd birds of Paradise 

That float thro' Heaven, and can- 
not light.' 
Or old-world trains, upheld at court 

By Cupid-boys of blooming hue — 
But take it — earnest wed with sport, 

And either sacred unto you. 



AMPHION. 

My father left a park to me, 

But it is wild and barren, 
A garden too with scarce a tree, 

.■\nd waster than a warren : 
Yet say the neighbors when they call, 

It is not bad but good land. 
And in it is the germ of all 

That grows within the woodland. 

O had I lived when song was great 

In days of old Amphion, 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, 

Nor cared for seed or scion ! 
And had I lived when song was great, 

And legs of trees were limber. 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, 

And fiddled in the timber ! 

'Tis said he had a tuneful tongue, 

Such happy intonation, 
Wherever he sat down and sung 

He left a small plantation; 
Wherever in a lonely grove 

He set up his forlorn pipes. 
The gouty oak began to move. 

And flounder into hornpipes. 



The mountain stirr'd its bushy crowr 
And, as tradition teaches. 

Young ashes pirouetted down 
Coquetting with young beeches ; 





And biiony-vine and ivy-wreath 
Ran forward to his rhyming. 

And from the valleys underneath 
Came little copses climbing. 



And down the middle, buzz ! she 

With all her bees behind her: 
The poplars, in long order due. 

With cypress promenaded. 
The shock-head willows two and two 

By rivers gallopaded. 

Came wet-shod alder from the wave, 

Came yews, a dismal coterie ; 
Each pluck'd his one foot from the 
grave, 

Poussetting with a sloe-tree : 
Old elms came breaking from the vine, 

The vine stream'd out to follow, 
And, sweating rosin, plump'd the pine 

From many a cloudy hollow. 

And wasn't it a sight to see. 

When, ere his song was ended, 
Like some great landslip, tree by tree. 

The country-side descended ; 
.■\nd shepherds from the mountain- 
eaves 

Look'd down, half-pleased, half- 
frighten'd. 
As dash'd about the drunken leaves 

The random sunshine lighten'd I 

Oh, nature first was fresh to men, 

And wanton without measure ; 
So youthful and so flexile then, 

You moved her at your pleasure. 
Twang out, my fiddle ! shake the 
twigs ! 

And make her dance attendance ; 
Blow, flute, and stir the stiff -set sprigs. 

And scirrhous roots and tendons. 



'Tis vain ! in such a brassy age 
I could not move a thistle ; 

The very sparrows in the hedge 
Scarce answer to my whistle ; 

Or at the most, when three-parts-sick 
With strumming and with scraping. 





A jackass heehaws from the rick, 
The passive oxen gaping. 

But what is that I hear ? a sound 
Like sleepy counsel pleading ; 
O Lord I — 'tis in my neighbor's 

The modern Muses reading. 
They read Botanic Treatises, 

And Works on Gardening thro' 
there. 
And Methods of transplanting trees 

To look as if they grew there. 

The wither'd Misses I how they prose 

O'er books of travell'd seamen, 
And show you slips of all that grows. 

From England to Van Diemen. 
They read in arbors dipt and cut, 

And alleys, faded places. 
By squares of tropic summer shut 

And warm'd in crystal cases. 

But these, tho' fed with careful dirt,. 

Are neither green nor sappy ; 
Half-conscious of the garden-squirt. 

The spindlings look unhappy. 
Better to me the meanest weed 

That blows upon its mountam. 
The vilest herb that runs to seed 

Beside its native fountain. 

And I must work thro' months of toil,. 

And years of cultivation, 
Upon my proper patch of soil 

To grow my own plantation. 
I'll take the showers as they fall, 

I will not vex my bosom : 
Enough if at the end of all 

A little garden blossom. 



.ST. AGNES' EVE. 

Deep on the convent-roof the snows 

Are sparkling to the moon : 
My breath to heaven like vapor goes ; 

May my soul follow soon I 
The shadows of the convent-towers- 

Slant down the snowy sward. 
Still creeping with the creeping hour 

That lead me to my Lord : 





Sir Galahad. 



Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 

As are the frosty skies, 
<Jr this first snowdrop of the year 

That in my bosom lies. 

As these white robes are soil'd and 
dark, 

To yonder shining ground; 
As this pale taper's earthly spark, 

To yonder argent round ; 
So shows my soul before the Lamb, 

My spirit before Thee ; 
So in mine earthly house I am, 

To that I hope to be. 
Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and 
far. 

Thro" all yon starlight keen. 
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star. 

In raiment white and clean. 

He lifts me to the golden doors; 

The flashes come and go ; 
All heaven bursts her starry floors, 

And strows her lights below. 
And deepens on and up ! the gates 

Roll back, and far within 
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom 
waits. 

To make me pure of sin. 
The sabbaths of Eternity, 

One sabbath deep and wide — 
A light upon the shining sea — 

The Bridegroom with his bride ! 



SIR GALAHAD. 

My good blade carves the casques of 



thrusteth i 



iigth of 



Mv tough 1 
My strength is as the s 

Because my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high. 

The hard brands shiver on the steel, 
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and 

fly. 

The horse and rider reel : 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists. 

And when the tide of combat stands, 
Perfume and flowers fall in showers. 

That lightlv rain from ladies' hands. 





How sweet are looks that ladies bend 

On whom their favors fall ! 
For them I battle till the end. 

To save from shame and thrall : 
But all my heart is drawn above. 

My knees are bow'd in crypt and 
shrine : 
I never felt the kiss of love. 

Nor maiden's hand in mine. 
More bounteous aspects on me beam. 

Me mightier transports move and 
thrill ; 
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 

A virgin heart in work and will. 

When down the stormy crescent goes, 

A light before me swims, 
Between dark stems the forest glows. 

I hear a noise of hymns : 
Then by some secret shrine I ride ; 

I hear a voice but none are there ; 
The stalls are void, the doors are wide, 

The tapers burning fair. 
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth. 

The silver vessels sparkle clean. 
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings. 

And solemn chaunts resound be- 
tween. 



Sometimes on lonely 

I find a magic bark ; 
I leap on board : no helmsman steers : 

I float till all is dark. 
A gentle sound, an awful light! 

three angels bear the holv Grail : 
With folded feet, in stoles of white. 

On sleeping wings they sail. 
Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! 

My spirit beats her mortal bars. 
As down dark tides the glory slides, 

And star-like mingles with the stars. 

When on my goodly charger borne 

Thro' dreaming towns I go. 
The cock crows ere the Christmas 



_._ dumb with i 

The tempest crackles 

-And. ringing, springs from brand 
and mail ; 
But o'er the dark a glorv spreads. 

And gilds the driving hail. 
1 leave the plain, I climb the height; 





Edward Gray — Will Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue. 



No branchy thicket shelter yields ; 
iut blessed forms in whistling storms 
Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 



A maiden knight 



ne is given 

Such hoiie, 1 know not fear; 
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 

That often meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease, 

Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
Pure lilies of eternal peace, 

Whose odors haunt my dreams; 
And, stricken by an angel's hand, 

This mortal armor that I wear. 
This weight and size, this heart and 
eyes. 

Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. 

The clouds are broken in the sky, 

And thro' the mountain-walls 
A rolling organ-harmony 

Swells up, and shakes and falls. 
Then move the trees, the copses nod, 

Wings flutter, voices hover clear : 
' O just and faithful knight of God I 

Ride on ! the prize is near.' 
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ; 

By bridge and ford, by park and 
pale, 
All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide. 

Until I find the holy Grail. 



EDWARD GRAY. 

Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder 

Met me walking on yonder way, 
' .\nd have you lost your heart .' ' she 
said ; 
' And are you married yet, Edward 
Gray .' ' 

Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me : 

Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : 
' Sweet Emma Moreland, love no 



Can touch the heart of Edv 
Gray. 



To-day I 
By Elle 



at for an 
's grave. 





' Shy she was, and I thought her cold ; 

Thought her proud, and fled over 
the sea ; 
Fill'd I was with follv and spite. 

When Ellen Ada'ir was dving for 



' Cruel, cruel the words I said ! 

Cruelly came they back to-day : 
" You're too slight and fickle," I said, 

"To trouble the heart of Edward 
Gray." 

' There I put my face in the grass — 
Whisper'd, " Listen to my despair : 

I repent me of all I did : 

Speak a little, Ellen Adair!" 

' Then f took a pencil, and wrote 
On the mossy stone, as I lay, 

" Here lies the body of Ellen Adair ; 
And here the heart of Edward 
Gray ! " 

' Love may come, and love may go. 
And fly, like a bird, from tree to 



' Bitterly we]it 
Bitterly wee]: 

There lies the 1 
And there t 
Gray!' 



WII.I, WATERPROOF'S 
L Y R I C A L M O X O L O G U E. 



MADK .« 

O PLUMP head- 
To which I m 



r THE COCK, 
alter at The Cock, 
time .'' 'Tis five 



How goes the time ? 
o'clock. 

Go fetch a pint of port : 
But let it not be such as that 

You set before chance-comers. 





Wil/ Waterproof's Lyrical Mono/ogi/i 



ibation to the Muse, 
But may she still be kind, 
And whisper lovely words, and use 

Her influence on the mind, 

To make me write my random 

rhymes, 

Ere thev be half-forgotten ; 

Nor add a'nd alter, many tmies, 

Till all be ripe and rotten. 



■ I pledge her, and she conies ; 

Her laurel in the wine, 
And lays it thrice upon my li]: 



nddi 



The 



fav 



Until the charm have power to make 
New litcbluod warm the bosom, 

And barren commonplaces break 
In full and kindly blossom. 

I pledge her silent at the board ; 

Her gradual fingers steal 
And touch uiion the master-chord 

Of all I felt and feel. 
Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans 

And phantom hopes assemble ; 
And that child's heart within the 
man's 

Begins to move and tremble. 

Thro' many an hour of summer suns, 

By many pleasant ways, 
Against its fountain upward runs 

The current of my days : 
I kiss the lips I once have kiss'd ; 

The gas-light wavers dimmer; 
And softly, thro' a vinous mist, 

My college friendships glimmer. 



I grow in worth, and w 
Unboding critic-pen, 



ind sense, 



that 



pence. 



cry 



Which vexes publ 
Who hold their hands to all, 

For that which all deny th: 
Who sweep the crossings, wet or dr; 

And all the world go by them. 

Ah yet, tho' all the world forsake, 
The' fortune clip my wings, 
rill not cramp my heart, nor take 





Half-views of men and thing 
Let Whig and Tory stir their blood ; 

There must be stormy weather ; 
But for some true result of good 

All parties work together. 

Let there be thistles, there are grapes ; 

If old things, there are new ; 
Ten thousand broken lights and 
shapes. 

Yet glimpses of the true. 
Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme, 

We lack nut rhvmes and reasons, 
As on this whirligig of Time 

We circle with the seasons. 

This earth is rich in man and maid ; 

With fair horizons bound : 
This whole wide earth of light and 
shade 

Comes out a perfect round. 
High over roaring Temple-bar, 

.\nd set in Heaven's third story, 
I look at all things as they are. 

But thro' a kind of glory. 



Head-waiter, honor'd by the guest 

Half-mused, or reeling ripe, 
The pint, you brought me, was the best 

That ever came from pipe. 
But tho' the port surpasses praise. 

My nerves have dealt with stiffer. 
Is there some magic in the place .' 

Or do my peptics differ ? 

For since I came to live and learn, 

No pint of white or red 
Had ever half the power to turn 

This wheel within my head, 
Which bears a season'd brain about, 

Unsubject to confusion, 
Tho' soak'd and saturate, out and out, 

Thro' every convolution. 

For I am of a numerous house. 

With many kinsmen gay. 
Where long and largely we carouse 

As who shall say me nay: 
Each month, a birth-day coming on, 

We drink defying trouble. 
Or sometimes two would ; 

And then we drank it double ; 





Wil/ Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue. 



Whether the vintage, yet iinkept, 

Had relish fiery-new, 
( )r elbow-deep in sawdust, slept, 

As old as Waterloo ; 
Or stow'd, when classic Canning died. 

In musty bins and chambers, 
Had cast upon its crusty side 

The gloom of ten Decembers. 

The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is ! 

She answer'd to my call. 
She changes with that mood or this. 

Is all-in-all to all : 
She lit the spark within my throat. 

To make my blood run quicker, 
Used all her fiery will, and smote 

Her life into the liquor. 

And hence this halo lives about 

The waiter's hands, that reach 
To each his perfect jiint of stout, 

His proper chop to each. 
He looks not like the conmion breed 

That with the napkin dally; 
I think he came like Ganymede, 

From some delightful valley. 

The Cock was of a larger egg 

Than modern poultry drop, 
Stept forward on a firmer leg, 

.\nd cramm'd a plumper crop ; 
Upon an ampler dunghill trod, 

Crow'd lustier late and early. 
Sipt wine from silver, praising God, 

And raked in golden barley. 

A private life was all his joy, 

Till in a court he saw 
A something-pottle-bodied boy 

That knuckled at the taw : 
He stoop'd and clutch'd him, fair and 
good, 

Flew over roof and casement : 
His brothers of the weather stood 

Stock-still for sheer amazement. 

But he, by farmstead, thorpe and 
spire. 

And follow'd with acclaims, 
A sign to many a staring shire 

Came crowing over Thames. 
Right down by smokv Paul's they 




Till, where the street grows straiter. 
One fix'd for ever at the door, 
And one became head-i 




But whither would my fancy go ? 

How out of place she makes 
The violet of a legend blow 

Among the chops and steaks ! 
'Tis but a steward of the can. 

One shade more plump than com- 



As jus 



id mere a servi 



ng-man 



As any born of woman. 
I ranged too high: what draws me 



Into the common day ? 
Is it the weight of that half-crown, 

Which I shall have to pay .' 
For, something duller than at first. 

Nor wholly comfortable, 
I sit, my empty glass reversed. 

And thrumming on the table : 

Half fearful that, with self at strife, 

I take myself to task; 
Lest of the fulness of my life 

I leave an empty flask : 
For I had hope, by something rare 

To prove myself a poet : 
But. while I plan and plan, my 

Is gray before I know it. 

So fares it since the years began, 

Till they be gather'd up ; 
The truth, that flies the flowing can. 

Will haunt the vacant cup: 
And others' follies teach us not. 

Nor much their wisdom teaches; 
And most, of sterling worth, is what 

Our own experience preaches. 

Ah, let the rusty theme alone ! 

We know not what we know. 
But for my pleasant hour, 'tis gone ; 

'Tis gone, and let it go. 
'Tis gone : a thousand such have 

Away from my embraces, 
And fall'n into the dusty crypt 
Of darken'd forms and faces. 





Go, therefore, thou ! thy betters went 

Long since, and came no more; 
With peals of genial clamor sent 

From many a tavern-dnor, 
With twisted quirks and happy hits. 

From mistv men of letters ; 
The tavern-hours of mighty wits — 

Thine elders and thy betters. 

Hours, when the Poet's words and 
looks 

Had vet their native glow : 
Nor yet' the fear of little books 

Had made him talk for show; 
But, all his vast heart sherris-warm'd, 

He flash'd his random speeches, 
Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm'd 

His literary leeches. 

So mix for ever with the past. 

Like all good things on earth ! 
For should I prize thee, couldst thou 

At half thy real worth? 
I hold it good, good things should 
pass : 

With time I will not quarrel : 
It is but yonder empty glass 

That makes me maudlin-moral. 



Head-waiter of the chop-house here. 

To which I most resort, 
I too must part : I hold thee dear 

For this good pint of port. 
For this, thou shalt from all things 
suck 

Marrow of mirth and laughter ; 
And wheresoe'er thou move, good 
luck 

Shall fling her old shoe after. 

But thou wilt never move from hence. 
The sphere thy fate allots : 

Thy latter days increased with pence 
C;o down among the pots : 

Thou battenest by the greasy gleam 
haunts of hungrv sinners, 

Old boxes, larded with the steam 
Of thirty thousand dinners. 

, would shift our 





Would quarrel with our lot; 
Thy care is, under polish'd tins. 

To serve the hot-and-hot ; 
To come and go, and come again, 

Returning like the pewit. 
And watch'd by silent gentlemen, 

That trifle with the cruet. 

Live long, ere from thy topmost head 

The thick-set hazel dies ; 
Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread 

The corners of thine eyes : 
Live long, nor feel in head or chest 

Our changeful equinoxes. 
Till mellow Death, like some late 
guest, 

.Shall call thee from the boxes. 

But when he calls, and thou shalt 



Of life, shalt earn no more ; 
No carved cross-bones, the types of 
Death, 
Shall show thee past to Heaven : 
But carved cross-pipes, and, under- 
neath, 
A pint-pot neatly graven. 



LADY CLARE. 

It was the time when lilies blow. 
And clouds are highest up in air. 

Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe 
To give his cousin, Lady Clare. 

I trow they did not part in scorn : 
Lovers long-betroth'd were they : 

They too will wed the morrow morn : 
God's blessing on the day ! 

' He does not love me for my birth, 
Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; 

He loves me for my own true worth, 
And that is well,' said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice the nurse. 
Said, ' Who was this that went from 
thee ?' 

' It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, 
' To-morrow he weds with me.' 




1 




/< 


J=T ^ 




> 


.3H r-S 


I — \ f— r 




K 

■ 96 Zmfy 


Clare. 


\ 


'O God be thank'dl' said Alice the 


' mother, mother, mother,' she said, 






nurse, 


' So strange it seems to me. 


. 






' That all comes round so iust and 








eXo fair: 


' Vet here's a kiss for my mother dear, *^ 




Lord Ronald is heir of all voiir lands, 


My mother dear, if this be so. 




And )-ou are :u'/ the Lady Clare." 


And lay your hand upon my head, 
And 'bless me, mother, ere I go.' 




' Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, 




1 


my nurse?" 


She clad herself in a russet gown. 


1 


Said Lady Clare,'' that ye speak so 


She was no longer Lady Clare : 




wild?" 


She went by dale, and she went by 




'As God's above,' said Alice the 


down. 




nurse, 


With a single rose in her hair. 




' I speak the truth : you are my child, 


The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had 




'The old Earl's daughter died at my 


brought 




breast ; 


Leapt up from where she lay. 




I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! 


Dropt her head in the maiden's hand. 




I buried her like my own sweet child. 


And follow'd her all the way. 




And put my child in her stead.' 


Down stept Lord Ronald from his 




' Falsely, falselv have vc ,h,uL: 


tower ; 




O mu'ther.'^he -..lid,"' if thi. be true, 


'O Ladv Clare, you shame vour 




To keep the l.e^i nun. under the sun 


worth ! 




.S,,n,.inv ve..r,fr...u l,i, ,!„-:.' 


Why come you drest like a village 




'Nay now, my child,' sai.! .Mice the 


That are the flower of the earth ? ' 




' l!ut keep the secret for vour life. 


' If I come drest like a village maid. 




And all vou have will be Lord Ron- 


I am but as mv fortunes are : 




ald's, 


I am a beggar born,' she said. 




When you are man and wife. 


'And not the Lady Clai-e.' 




' If I'm a beggar born,' she said, 
' I will speak out, for I dare not lie. 


' Play me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald, 
' For I am yours in w<;rd and in deed. 






Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold, 


Play me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald, 




And fling the diamond necklace by.' 


' Your riddle is hard to read.' 




'Nay now, my child,' said Alice the 


and proudly stood she up ! 

Her heart within her did not fail : 




' I'.iii l,-L-.]i I'lr ^tc?ct all ve can.' 


She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes. 




She said, -Xoi s,,: l,nt I will know 
If tl.err l.L- any fail h in man.' 


And told him all her nurse's tale. 




He laugh'd a laugh of inerry scorn : 




' Nay now, what faith ' ' said Alice the 


He turu'd and kiss'd- her where she 




nurse. 


stood: 




' The man will cleave unto his right.' 


' If you are not the heiress born. 




^ ' And he sh.ill have it,' the ladv replied, 


.And I,' said he, ' the ne.xt in blood— 'T' 






'Thn' I should die lo-niuht,- 


' If you are not the heiress born, 






'Yet give one kiss to v,.ur mother 


.\nd I,' said he, 'the lawful heir. 






dear ! 


We two will wed to-morrow morn. 




T^ 


Alas, my child. I sinn'd for thee.' 


And you shall still be Lady Clare.' 


K 


3 1 IS 
















-Lord BurleM. 



THE CAPTAIN. 
A LEGEND OF THE NAVY. 

He that only rules by terror 

Doeth grievous wrong. 
Deep as Hell I count his error. 

Let him hear my song. 
Pjtave the Captain was : the seamen 

Made a gallant crew, 
Gallant sons of English freemen, 

Sailors bold and true. 
Hut thev hated his oppression. 

Stern' he was and rash ; 
So for every light transgression 

Doom'd them to the lash. 
Day by day more harsh and cruel 

S'eem'd the Captain's mood. 
Secret wrath like smother'd fuel 

Burnt in each man's blood. 
^■et he hoped to purchase glory, 

Hoped to make the name ' 
(Jf his vessel great in story, 

Wheresoe'er he came. 
So they past by capes and islands, 

Many a harbor-mouth. 
Sailing under palmy highlands 

Far within the South. 
( )n a day when they were going 

O'er the lone e.xpanse, 
In ihe north, her canvas flowing, 

Rose a ship of France. 
Then the Captain's color heighten'd, 

Joyful came his speech : 
Put a cloudy gladness Hghten'd 

In the eyes of each. 
' Chase,' lie said : the ship flew for- 

And the wind did blow ; 
Stately, lightly, went she Norward, 

Till she near'd the foe. 
Then they look'd at him they hated. 

Had what they desired : 
Mute with folded arms thev waited— 

Not a gun was fired. 
Hut they heard the foeman's thunder 

Roaring out their doom ; 
.MI the air was torn in sunder. 

Crashing went the boom, 

■re splinter'd, decks were 



ke rain ; 




word 



t lymg, 
■ dying, 



Over mast and deck were scatter 

Blood and brains of men. 
Spars were splinter'd ; decks 
broken : 

Every mother's son — 
Down they dropt — n^ 
spoken- 
Each beside his gun. 
On the decks as they w 

Were their faces grin 
In their blood, as they 1 

Did they smile on hit 
Those, in whom he had reliance 

For his noble name. 
With one smile of still defiance 

Sold him unto shame. 
Shame and wrath his heart 
founded. 

Pale he turn'd and red. 
Till himself was deadly wounded 

Falling on the dead. 
Dismal error! fearful slaughter! 

Years have wander'd by. 
Side by side beneath the water 

Crew and Captain lie : 
There the sunlit ocean tosses 

O'er them mouldering, 
And the lonely seabird crosses 

With one waft of the wing. 




THE LORD r)F BURLEIGH. 



In' her ear he whispers gaily, 

• If my heart Viv signs can tell. 
Maiden, I have watch'd thee dailv, 

And I think thou lov'st me well.' 
She replies, in accents fainter, 

'There is none I love like thee.' 
He is but a landscape-painter. 

And a village maiden she. 
He to lips, that fondly falter, 

Presses his without reproof: 
Leads her to the village altar, 

.■\nd thev leave her'father's roof. 
' I can make no marriage present : 

Little can I give m; 
Love will make our cottage pleasant. 

And I love thee more than life.' 
Thev by parks and lodges going 

See the lordly castles sta"iid : 
Summer woods, about them blowing, 





The Voyage. 



Made a murmur in the land. 
P'rom deep thought himself he rouses, 

Says to her that loves him well, 
' Let us see these handsome houses 

Where the wealthy nobles dwell.' 
So she goes by him attended, 



Sees whatever fai 


and splendid 


Lay betwixt his 


home 


and hers ; 


I'arks with oak ai 


dche 


tnut shady, 


Parks and order'd gai 


dens great, 
nd lady. 


Ancient homes of lord a 


Built for pleasu 


■c and 


for state. 


All he shows her 


,U)k.., 




Evermore she s 


eem^ t 


1 jjaze 



On that cottage growiiit; nearer, 

Where they twain will spend their 
davs. 
O but she will love himtrulv! 

He shall have a cheerful home; 
She will order all thini;^ duly, 

When beiiL.iih liis i.M.f thevcome. 
Thus her heart i..jniu,. mr.ufv, 

Till a gateway .vliu diMrni;.' 
With armorial bearings stately. 

And beneath the gate she turns ; 
Sees a mansion more majestic 

Than all those she saw before : 
Many a gallant gay domestic 

Bows before him at the door. 
And they speak in gentle murmur, 

When they answer to his call, 
While he treads with footstep firmer. 

Leading on from hall to hall. 
And, while now she wonders blindly. 

Nor the meaning can divine, 
Proudlv turns he round and kindly, 

' AU'of this is mine and thine.' 
Here he lives in state and bounty, 

Lord of Burleii>h, fair and free. 
Not a lord in all die county 

Is so great a lord as he. 
All at once the color flushes 

Her sweet face from brow to 
chin : 
As it were with shame she blushes. 

And her spirit changed within. 
Then her countenance all over 

Pale again as death did prove : 
But he clasp'd her like a lover, 

And he cheer'd her soul with love. 
So she strove against her weakness, 

Tho' at times her spirit sank : 





Shaped her heart with woman's 
ness 

To all duties of her rank : 
And a gentle consort made he. 

And her gentle mind was such 
That she grew a noble lady, 

And the people loved her much. 
But a trouble weigh'd upon her. 

And perplex'd her, night and morn. 
With the burthen of an iionor 

Unto which she was not born. 
Faint she grew, and ever fainter. 

And she murmur'd, ' Oh, that he 
Were once more that landscape- 
painter, 

Which did win my heart from me ! ' 
So she droop'd and droop'd before him. 

Fading slowly from his side : 
Three fair children first she bore him. 

Then before her time she died. 
Weeping, weeping late and early. 

Walking up and pacing downj 
Deeplv mourn'd the Lord of ISurleigh, 

Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. 
And lie came to look upon her, 

.'\nd he look'd at her and said, 
' Bring the dress and put it on her, 

That she wore when she was wed.' 
Then her people, softly treading. 

Bore to earth her body, drest 
In the dress that she was wed in, 

That her spirit might have rest. 



THE VOYAGE. 



We left behind the painted buoy 

That tosses at the harbor-mouth ; 
And madly danced our hearts with 
joy. 

As fast we fleeted to the South : 
How fresh was every sight and sound 

On open main or winding shore ! 
We knew the merry world was round. 

And we might sail for evermore. 

II. 

Warm broke the breeze against the 

Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail : 




The Voyage. 



The broad seas swell'd to meet the 
keel, 
And swept behind ; so quick the 



How oft we saw the Sun retire. 

And burn the threshold of the 
night. 
Fall from his Ocean-lane of fire. 

And sleep beneath his pillar'd 
light ! 
How oft the purple-skirted robe 

Of twilight slowly downward drawn. 
As thro' the slumber of the globe 

Again we dash'd into the dawn ! 

IV. 
New stars all night above the brim 

Of waters lighten'd into view ; 
They climb'd as quickly, for the rim 

Changed every moment as we flew. 
Far ran the naked moon across 

The houseless ocean's heaving 
field. 
Or flying shone, the silver boss 

Of her own halo's dusky shield ; 



The peaky islet shifted shapes, 

High towns on hills were dimly 
seen, 
We past long lines of Northern capes 
And dewy Northern meadows 
green. 
We came to warmer waves, and deep 
Across the boundless east we drove. 
Where those long swells of breaker 
sweep 
The nutmeg rocks and isles of 



clov 



!y peaks that flamed, or, all in shade, 
Gloom'd the low coast and quiver- 
ing brine 





With ashy rains, that spreading made 
Fantastic plume or sable pine ; 

By sands and steaming flats, and 
floods 
Of mighty mouth, we scudded fast. 

And hills and scarlet-mingled woods 
Glow'd for a moment as we past. 

vn. 
O hundred shores of happy climes. 
How swiftly stream'd ye by the 
bark! 
At times the whole sea burn'd, at times 
With wakes of fire we tore the 
dark; 
At times a carven craft would shoot 
From havens hid in fairy bowers. 
With naked limbs and flowers and 
fruit. 
But we nor paused for fruit nor 
flowers. 



For one fair Vision ever fled 

Down the waste waters day and 
night. 
And still we foUow'd where she led. 

In hope to gain upon her flight. 
Her face was evermore unseen. 

And fixt upon the far sea-line; 
But each man murmur'd, ' O my 
Queen, 

I follow till I make thee mine.' 



And now we lost her, now she 
gleam'd 
Like Fancy made of golden air. 
Now nearer to the prow she seem'd 
Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge 
fair. 
Now high on waves that idly burst 
Like Heavenly Hope she crown'd 
the sea. 
And now, the bloodless point reversed. 
She bore the blade of Liberty. 



And only one among us — him 

We pleased not — he was seldom 
pleased : 





Sir Launcelot and Qii 



Me saw not far : liis eyes were. dim : 
But ours he swore were all dis- 
eased. 
' A ship of fools,' he shriek'd in spite, 
' A ship of fools,' he sneer'd and 
wept. 
And overboard one stormy night 
He cast his body, and on we swept. 

XI. 

And never sail of ours was furl'd. 
Nor anchor dropt at eve or morn ; 

We lov'd the glories of the world, 
But laws of nature were our scorn. 

For blasts would rise and rave and 

But whence were those that drove 
the sail 
Across the whirlwind's heart of peace, 
And to and thro' the counter gale .' 



Again to colder climes we came, 

For still we follow'd where she led : 
Now mate is blind and captain lame, 

And half the crew are sick or dead. 
But, blind or lame or sick or sound. 

We follow that which (lies before : 
We know the merry world is round. 

And we may sail forevermore. 



SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN 
GUINEVERE. 

A FRAGjMENT. 

Like souls that balance joy and pain 
With tears and smiles from heaven 

again 
The maiden Spring upon the plain 
Came in a sun-lit fall of rain. 

In crystal vapor everywhere 
Blue isles of heaven laugh'd between, 
.-\nd far, in forest-deeps unseen, 
The topmost elm-tree gather'd green 

From draughts of balmy air. 





Sometimes the sparhawk, ^^ 

along, 
Hush'd all the groves from fear of 

Y,\ L'l --• iii. - uith fuller sound 
In cur\. - 1 1 ' i>\ n liver ran. 
And di. M - , . I.iids began 

To spri I I iiih. tl j« if.-ct fan. 

Above the teeming ground. 

Then, in the boyhood of the year. 
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 
Rode thio' the covert,-, of the deer, 
With bli-isfui treble ringing clear. 

She seem'd a part of joyous 

A gown of grass-green silk she wore, 
Buckletl with golden clasps before; 
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore 
Closed in a golden ring. 



No 


V on so 


ne t 


wisted 




-net. 




No 


V by so. 


le t 


t^\ 


ol 


ulet 




He 


crean 
set: 


-wh 


te mi 


le 


his 


pastern 




And fleete 


now she 


skin 


m'd the 



plains 

Than she whose elfin prancer springs 
By night to eery warblings, 
When all the glimmering moorland 

rings 
With jingling bridle-reins. 

As fast she fled thro' sun and shade. 
The happy winds upon her'play'd. 
Blowing the ringlet from the braid : 
She look'd so lovely, as she swav'd 

The rein with dainty finger-tips, 
A man had given all other bliss, 
And all his worldly worth for this, 
To waste his whole heart in one 
kiss 

Upon her perfect lips. 



A FAREWELL. 

Flow down, cold rivulet 
Thy tribute wave dellv 

No more by thee ray si 
For ever and for evei 





The Beggar Maid— The Eagle— The Letters 



Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, 

A rivulet then a river : 
Xo where by thee my steps shall 
be, 

For ever and for ever. 

lint here will sigh thine alder tree, 
.■\nd here thine aspen shiver ; 

.-Vnd here by thee will hum the bee, 
Yor ever and for ever. 

A thousand suns will stream on thee, 
A thousand moons will quiver ; 

But not by thee my steps shall be. 
For ever and for ever. 



THE BEGGAR MAID. 



She^ 

say : 
Bare-footed came the beggar maid 

Before the king Cophetua. 
In robe and crown the king stept 
down, 
To meet and greet her on her way; 
' It is no wonder,' said the lords, 
' .She is more beautiful than day.' 

As shines the moon in clouded skies, 

.She in her poor attire was seen : 
One praised her ancles, one her eyes, 

One her dark hair and lovesome 
mien. 
Si) sweet a face, such angel grace, 

In all that land had never been : 
Cophetua sware a royal oath : 

' This beggar maid shall be my 



THE EAGLE. 

FRAGMENT. 

:lasps the crag with crooked 
hands ; 
Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
Ring'd with the azure world, he 




The wrinkled sea beneath him crawl: 
He watches from his mountain 
And like a thunderbolt he falls. 




Move eastward, happy earth, and 
leave 

Von orange sunset waning slow : 
From fringe's of the faded eve, 

O, hapijy planet, eastward go ; 
Till over thy dark shoulder glow 

Thy silver sister-world, and rise 

To glass herself in dewy eyes 
That watch me from the glen below. 

.\\\, bear me with thee, smoothly 
borne. 

Dip forward under starry light, 
And move me to my marriage-morn. 

And round again to happy night. 



Come not, when I am dead, 

To drop thy foolish tears upon my 
grave, 
To trample round my fallen head. 
And ve.\ the mihappy dust thou 
wouldst not save. 
There let the wind sweep and the 
plover cry ; 

But thou, go by. 

Child, if it were thine error or thy crime 
I care no longer, being all unblest : 
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of 
Time, 
And I desire to rest. 
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me 
where I lie : 
Go by, go by. 



[-HE LETTERS. 



Still on the tower stood the vane,. 

A black yew gloom'd the stagnai 
air, 
I peer'd athwart the chancel pane 

And saw the altar cold and bart 
A clog of lead was round my feet, 

A band of pain across my brow 





The Vision of Si, 



' Cold altar, Heaven and earth shall 
Before you hear my marriage vow.' 



I turn'd and humm'd a bitter song 

That mock'd the wholesome human 
heart, 
And then we met in wrath and wrong. 

We met, but only meant to part. 
Full cold my greeting was and dry ; 

She faintly smiled, she hardly 
moved ; 
I saw with half-unconscious eye 

She wore the colors I approved. 



She took the little ivory chest, 

With half a sigh she turn'd the 
key, 
Then raised her head with lips com- 
prest. 
And gave my letters back to me. 
And gave the trinkets and the rings, 
My gifts, when gifts of mine could 
please ; 
As looks a father on the things 

(_)f his dead son, I look'd on these. 



IV. 

She told me all her friends had said ; 

I raged against the public liar ; 
She talk'd as if her love were dead, 

But in my words were seeds of 
fire. 
' No more of love ; your sex is known : 

I never will be twice deceived. 
Henceforth I trust the man alone, 

The woman cannot be believed. 



' Thro' slander, meanest spawn of 
Hell— 

And women's slander is the worst, 
And you, whom once I lov'd so well. 

Thro' you, my life will be accurst.' 
I spoke with heart, and heat and force, 

I shook her breast with vague 
alarms — 
Like torrents from a mountain source 

We rush'd into each other's arms. 





We parted: sweetly gleam'd the 

And sweet the vapor-braided blue. 
Low breezes fann'd the belfry bars. 

As homeward by the church I drew. 
The very graves appear'd to smile. 

So fresh they rose in shadow'd 
swells ; 
■ Dark porch,' I said, ' and silent aisle. 

There comes a sound of marriage 



THE VISION OF SIN. 

I. 

I H.-iD a vision when the night was 

late: 
A youth came riding toward a palace- 
gate. 
He rode a horse with wings, that 

would have flown. 
But that his heavy rider kept him 

down. 
And from the palace came a child of 

sin. 
And took him by the curls, and led 

him in. 
Where sat a company with heated 

eyes. 
Expecting when a fountain should 

arise : 
A sleepy light upon their brows and 

lips — 
As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse. 
Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles 

and capes — 
Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid 

shapes. 
By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, 

and piles of grapes. 



Then methought I heard a mellow 
sound. 

Gathering up from all the lower 
ground ; 

Narrowing in to where they sat as- 
sembled 

Low voluptuous music winding trem- 
bled. 




The Vision of Si. 



les : they that heard it 

siglid, 
Panted hand-in-hand with faces pale, 
Swung themselves, and in low tones 

replied ; 
Till the fountain spouted, showering 

wide 
Sleet of diamond-drift and pearly hail ; 
Then the music touch'd the gates and 

died; 
Rose again from where it seem'd to 

fail, 
Stonn'd in orbs of song, a growing 

gale ; 
Till thronging in and in, to where they 

waited. 
As 'twere a hundred-throated night- 
ingale, 
The strong tempestuous treble 

throbb'd and palpitated; 
Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound. 
Caught the sparkles, and in circles. 
Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid 

mazes. 
Flung the torrent rainbow round : 
Then they started from their places. 
Moved with violence, changed in hue, 
Caught each other with wild grimaces. 
Half-invisible to the view, 
Wheeling with precipitate paces 
To the melody, till they flew, 
Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces. 
Twisted hard in fierce embraces. 
Like to Furies, like to Graces, 
Dash'd together in blinding dew: 
Till, kill'd with some luxurious agony. 
The nerve-dissolving melody 
Fliitter'd headlong from the sky. 



And then I look'd up toward a moun- 



I saw that every morning, far with- 

. drawn 
Pjeyond the darkness and the cataract, 
God mads Himself an awful rose of 

dawn. 
Unheeded : and detaching, fold by fold, 
From those still heights, and, slowly 

drawing near. 





A vapor heavy, hueless, formless, 

cold. 
Came floating on for many a month 

and year. 
Unheeded: and I thought I would 

have spoken. 
And warn'd that madman ere it grew 

But, as in dreams, I could not. Mine 

was broken. 
When that cold vapor touch'd the 

palace gate. 
And link'd again. I saw within my 

head 
A gray and gap-tooth'd man as lean 

as death. 
Who slowly rode across a wither'd 

Ireath, 
And lighted at a ruin'd inn, and said : 



' Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin! 

Here is custom come your way; 
Take my brute, and lead him in. 

Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay. 

' Bitter barmaid, waning fast ! 

See that sheets are on my bed ; 
What ! the flower of life is'past : 

It is long before you wed. 

' Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour, 
At the Dragon on the heath ! 

Let us have a quiet hour. 

Let us hob-and-nob with Death. 

' I am old, but let me drink ; 

Bring me spices, bring me wine ; 
I remember, when I think. 

That my youth was half divine. 

Wine is good for shrivell'd lips. 
When a blanket wraps the day. 

When the rotten woopland drips. 
And the leaf is stamp'd in clay. 

' Sit thee down, and have no shame. 
Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee : 

What care I for any name .' 
What for order or degree ? 

' Let me screw thee up a peg : 
Let me loose thy tongue with wi 





The Vision of Sin. 



thine or mine 

' Thou shalt not be saved by works : 
Thou hast been a sinner too : 

Ruin'd trunks on wither'd forks, 
Empty scarecrows, I and you ! 



' Fill the cup, and fill the can : 
Have a rouse before the morn : 

Every moment dies a man, 
Every moment one is born. 

' We are men of ruin'd blood ; 

Therefore comes it we are wise. 
Fish are we that love the mud, 

Rising to no fancy-fiies. 

' Name and fame I to fly sublime 
Thro' the courts, the camps, the 
schools. 

Is to be the ball of Time, 

Bandied by the hands of fools. 



' Friendship I — to be I 



Let the canting liar pack ! 
Well I know, when I am gone, 
How she mouths behind my back. 

' Virtue I — to be good and just — 
Every heart, when sifted well. 

Is a clot of warmer dust, 

Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell. 

' O ! we two as well can look 
Whited thought and cleanly life 

As the priest, above his book 
Leering at his neighbor's wife. 

' Fill the cup, and fill the can : 
Have a rouse before the morn : 

Every moment dies a man. 
Every moment one is born. 

' Drink, and let the parties rave : 
They are fill'd with idle spleen ; 

Rising, falling, like a wave. 

For thev know nut what thev mean. 



' He that roars for liberty 

Faster binds a tyrant's power; 

And the tyrant's cruel glee 
Forces on the freer hour. 





' Fill the can, and fill the cup 

.■\11 the windy ways of 
Are but dust that rises up. 

And is lightly laid again. 

' Greet her with applausive breath, 
Freedom, gaily doth she tread; 

In her right a civic wreath. 
In her left a human head. 

' No, I love not what is new ; 

She is of an ancient house : 
And I think we know the hue 

Of that cap upon her brows. 

' Let her go I her thirst she slakes 
Where the bloody conduit runs. 

Then her sweetest meal she makes 
On the first-born of her sons. 

' Drink to lofty hopes that cool — 
Visions of a perfect State : 

Drink we, last, the public fool. 
Frantic love and frantic hate. 

' Chant me now some wicked stave. 
Till thy drooping courage rise, 

."^nd the glow-worm of the grave 
Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes. 

' Fear not thou to loose thy tongue ; 

Set thy hoary fancies free ; 
What is loathsome to the young 

.Savors well to thee and me. 

' Change, reverting to the years, 

When thy nerves could under- 
stand 

What there is in loving tears. 
And the warmth of hand in hand. 

' Tell me tales of thy first love— 
.April hopes, the fools of chance; 

Till the graves begin to move. 
And the dead begin to dance. 

' Fill the can, and fill the cup : 

All the windy ways of 
.■\re but dust that rises up, 

And is lightly laid again. 

' Trooping from their mouldy dens 
The chap-fallen circle spreads : 





Welcome, fellow-citizens, 

Hollow hearts and empty heads ! 

' You are bones, and what of that ? 

Every face, however full, 
Padded round with flesh and fat. 

Is but modell'd on a skull. 

' Death is king, and Vivat Rex ! 

Tread a measure on the stones, 
Madam — if I know your sex, 

From the fashion of your bones. 

' No, I cannot praise the fire 
In your eye— nor yet your lip : 

All the more do I admire 

Joints of cunning workmanship. 

' Lo ! God's likeness — the ground- 
plan — 
Neither modell'd, glazed, nor 
framed : 
Buss Tne, thou rough sketch of man. 
Far too naked to be shamed ! 

■* Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, 
While we keep a little breath ! 

Drink to heavy Ignorance ! 

Hob-and-uob with brother Death ! 

' Thou art mazed, the night is long. 
And the longer night is near : 

What ! I am not all as wrong 
As a bitter jest is dear. 

' Youthful hopes, by scores, to all. 
When the locks are crisp and 
curl'd ; 

Unto me my maudlin gall 

And my mockeries of the world. 

' Fill the cup, and fill the can : 
Mingle madness, mingle scorn ! 

Dregs of life, and lees of man ; 
Yet we will not die forlorn." 





And slowly quickening inl 

By shards and scurf of salt, : 

of dross, 
Old plash of rains, and refuse patch'd 

Then some one spake: ' Behold! it 
was a crime 

Of sense avenged by sense that wore 
with time.' 

Another said : ' The crime of sense 
became 

The crime of malice, and is equal 
blame.' 

And one : ' He had not wholly 
quench'd his power ; 

A little grain of conscience made him 
sour.' 

At last I heard a voice upon the 
slope 

Cry to the summit, ' Is there any 
hope .' ' 

To which an answer peal'd from that 
high land, 

But in a tongue no man could under- 
stand ; 

And on the glimmering limit far with- 
drawn 

God made Himself an awful rose of 



You might have won the Poet's name. 
If such be worth the winning now. 
And gain'd a laurel for your brow 

Of sounder leaf than I can claim ; 

But you have made the wiser choice, 
A life that moves to gracious ends 
Thro' troops of unrecording friends, 

A deedful life, a silent ^ 





o6 To E. £., OH His Travels hi Greece—The Poefs Song. 



Of those that wear the Poet's 

crown : 
Hereafter, neither knave nor clown 
Shall hold their orgies' at your tomb. 

For now tlie Poet cannot die, 
Nor leave his music as of old. 
But round him ere he scarce be cold 

Begins the scandal and the cry : 

' Proclaim the faults he would not 
show : 
Break lock and seal : betray the 

trust : 
Keep nothing sacred : 'tis but just 
dec" ' 



-headed beast should kno 



Ah shameless ! for he did but sing 
A song that pleased us from its 

worth ; 
No public life was his on earth. 

No Uazon'd statesman he, nor king. 

He gave the people of his best : 
Mis worst he kept, his best he gave. 
My Shakespeare's curse on clown 
and knave 

Who will not let his ashes rest ! 

Who make it seem more_sweet to be 
The little life of bank and brier, 
The bird that pipes his lone desire 

And dies unheard within his tree. 

Than he that warbles long and loud 
And drops at Glory's temple-gates. 
For whom the carrion vulture waits 

To tear his heart before the crowd ! 



TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN 
GREECE. 

ILLYRIAN woodlands, echoing falls 
Of water, sheets of summer glass. 
The long divine Peneian pass. 

The vast Akrokeraunian walls, 

Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair. 
With such a pencil, such a pen. 
You shadow forth to distant men, 

I read and felt that I was there : 





And trust me while I turn'd the page, 
And track'd you still on classic 

ground, 
I grew in gladness till I found 

My spirits in the golden age. 

For me the torrent ever pour'd 

And glisten'd — here and there alone 
The broad-limb'd Gods at random 
thrown 

By fouutaiu-urns; — and Naiads oar'd 

A glimmering shoulder under gloom 
Of cavern pillars ; on the swell 
The silver lily heaved and fell ; 

And many a slope was rich in bloom 

From him that on the mountain lea 
By dancing rivulets fed his flocks 
To him who sat upon the rocks. 

And fluted to the morning sea. 



Break, break, break. 

On )hy cold gray stones, O Sea ! 
And I would that niy tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

O well for the fisherman's boy. 

That he shouts with his sister at 
play! 

O well for the sailor lad. 

That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 

And the stately ships go on 

To their haven under the hill ; 
• But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand. 
And the sound of a voice that is 
still ! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea I 
But the tender grace of a day that is 
dead 

Will never come back to me. 



THE POET'S SONG 



The rain had fallei 
He pass'd by the 
the street, 



the Poet arose, 




1 




,/<r^ 1 'p=-g i^ 1 rr 


>> 








1 


A light wind blew from the gates of 


The swallow stopt as he hunted the 




- ■ the sun, 


fly, 


. . 






And waves of shadow went over 


The snake slipt under a spray, 








c^ the wheat, 


The wild hawk stood with the down O^ 






And he sat him clown in a lonely 


on his beak. 






place, 


And stared, with his foot on the 






And chanted a melody loud and 


prey. 






sweet. 


And the nightingale thought, ' I have 






That made the wild-swan pause in her 


sung many songs. 






cloud, 


But never a one so gay. 






And the lark drop down at his 


For he sings of what the world will be 






feet. 


When the years have died away.' 






ENOCH 


ARDEN 






AND OTHER POEMS. 








Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats up- 






ENOCH ARDEN. 


drawn ; 
And built their castles of dissolving 






Long lines of cliff breaking have left 


sand 






a chasm ; 


To watch them overflow'd, or follow- 






And in the chasm are foam and yel- 


ing up 






low sands ; 


And flying the white breaker, daily 






Bevond, red roofs about a narrow 


left 






wharf 


The little footprint daily wash'd away. 






In cluster; then a moulder'd church ; 








and higher 


A narrow c^tve ran in beneath the 






A long street climbs to one tall- 


cliff: 






tower'd mill ; 


In this the children play'd at keeping 






And high in heaven behind it a gray 


house. 






Enoch was host one day, Philip the 






With Danish barrows; and a hazel- 






wood. 


While Annie still was mistress; but 






By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes 








Green in a cuplike hollow of the 


Enoch would hold possession for a 






down. 


week : 
' This is mv house and this mv little 






Here on this beach a hundred vears 


wife.' 






ago. 


' Mine too ' said Philip ' turn and turn 






Three children of three houses, Annie 


about:' 






Lee, 


When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch 






The prettiest little damsel in the port. 


stronger-made 






And Philip Ray the miller's onlv son. 


Was master : then would Philip, his 






And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad 


blue eyes _^ 






Made orphan by a winter shipwreck. 


An flooded with the helpless wrath of J, 






. play'd 


tears. 








Among the waste and lumber of the 


.Shriek out ' I hate you, Enoch,' and 








shore. 


at this 








Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fish- 


The little wife would weep for com- 








ing-nets, 

V 


. . . -M 






'<H 1 IS i. 1 1 i-iy 








Enoch Arden. 



quarrel for her 
Id be little wife to 



But when the dawn of rosy child- 
hood past, 
And the new warmth of life's ascend- 

Was felt by either, either fixt his 

heart 
On that one girl; and Enoch spoke 

his love, 
But Philip loved in silence ; and the 

girl 
Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to 

him ; 
But she loved Enoch ; tho' she knew 

And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch 

set 
A purpose evermore before his eyes, 
To hoard all savings to the utter- 
To purchase his own boat, and make 

a home 
For Annie: and so prospered that at 

A luckier or a bolder fisherman, 

A carefuller in peril, did not breathe 

For leagues along that breaker-beaten 

Than Enoch. Likewise had he 

served a year 
On board a merchantman, and made 

himself 
Full sailor; and he thrice had pluck'd 

a life 
From the dread sweep of the 

down-streaming seas: 
And all men look'd upon him favora- 
bly : 
And ere he tonch'd his one-and- 

twentieth May 
He purchased his own boat, and 

made a home 
For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway 

iber'd 




m a golden autumn eventide, 
ger people making holiday, 




With bag and sack a 

and small. 
Went nutting to the hazel; 



(His father lying sick and needing 

him) 
An hour behind; but as he climb'd 

the hill, 
Just where the prone edse of the 

wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, saw the 



Enoch and An 

hand, 

His large gray eyes and weather- 
beaten face 
All-kindled by a still and sacred fire. 
That burn'd as on an altar. Philip 

look'd. 
And in their eyes and faces read his 

doom; 
Then, as their faces drew together. 

groan 'd, 
And slipt aside, and like a wounded 

life 
Crept down 

wood ; 
There, while the rest were 

merry-making. 
Had his dark hour unseen, 

and past 
Bearing a lifelong hunger in his 



ing hand-in- 



he hollows of the 
rest were loud in 
d rose 



So these were wed, and merrily 

rang the bells, 
And merrily ran the years, seven 

happy years. 
Seven hapjjy years of health and com- 
petence. 
And mutual love and honorable toil ; 
With children ; first a daughter. In 

him woke, 
With his first babe's first cry, the 

noble wish 
To save all earnings to the uttermost. 
And give his child a better bringing- 

up 
Than his had been, or hers ; a wish 

renew'd. 
When two years after came a boy to 

be 
The rosy idol of her solitudes, 





"Are there no beggars at your gate?"— /to^e ij. 




Enoch Arden. 



While Enoch was abroad on wrathful 
seas, 

Or often journeying landward ; for in 
truth 

Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's 
ocean-spoil 

In ocean-smelling osier, and his face, 

Rough-redden'd with a thousand win- 
ter gales, 

Not onlv to the market-cross were 
known. 

But in the leafj' lanes behind the down, 

Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp. 

And peacock-vewtree of the lonely 
Hall, 

Whose Friday fare was Enoch's min- 
istering. 

Then came a change, as all things 

human change. 
Ten miles to northward of the narrow 

port 
Open'd a larger haven: thither used 
Enoch at times to go by land or sea ; 
And once when there, and clambering 

on a mast 
In harbor, bv mischance he slipt and 

fell: ' 
A limb was broken when they lifted 

him; 
.\nd while he lay recovering there, 

his wife 
r.nre him another son, a sickly one : 
Another hand crept too across his 

trade 
Takinc; her bread and theirs: and on 

'^him fell, 
.Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing 

man, 
Vet lying thus inactive, doubt and 

He seeni'd, as in a nightmare of the 

nii;ht, 
To see Ims children leading evermore 
Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth. 
And her, he loved, a beggar : then he 

pray'd 
' Save them from this, whatever comes 

to me.' 
And while he pray'd, the master of 



Enoch had 





red \ 



Came, for he knew the 

valued him, 
Reporting of his vessel China-bound, 
And wanting yet a boatswain. 

Would he go ? 
There yet were many weeks before 

she sail'd, 
Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch 

have the place ? 
And Enoch all at once assented to it, 
Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. 

So now that shadow of mischance 

appear'd 
No graver than as when some little 

cloud 
Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, 
And isles a light in the offing ; yet 

the wife — » 
When he was gone — the children — 

what to do .' 
Then Enoch lay long-pondering on 

his plans ; 
To sell the boat — and yet he loved 

her well- 
How many a rough sea had he 

weather'd in her I 
He knew her, as a horseman knows 

his horse — 
And yet to sell her — then with what 

she brought 
Buy goods and stores — set Annie 

forth in trade 
With all that seamen needed or their 

wives— 
So might she keep the house while he 

was gone. 
Should he not trade himself out 

yonder i' go 
This voyage more than once ? yea 

twice or thrice — 
As oft as needed — last, returning rich, 
Become the master of a larger craft. 
With fuller profits lead an easier life, 
Have all his pretty young ones edu- 
cated. 
And pass his days in peace among his 

own. 

Thus Enoch in his heart determined 
all: 
Then moving homeward came on 





Nursing the sickly babe, her latest- 
born. 

Forward she started with a happy cry, 

And laid the feeble infant in his arms ; 

Whom Enoch took, and handled all 
his limbs. 

Appraised his weight and fondled 
father-like. 

But had no heart to break his purposes 

To Annie, till the morrow, when he 
spoke. 

Then first since Enoch's golden 

ring had girt 
Her finger, Annie fought against his 

will : 
Yet not with brawling opposition she, 
But manifold entreaties, many a tear. 
Many a sad kiss by day by night re- 

new'd 
(Sure that all evil would come out of 



Her blossom or her seedling, paused ; 

and he. 
Who needs would work for Ar 

the last. 
Ascending tired, heavily slept till 



rning of 
Annie's 



And Enoch faced this m^ 

farewell 
Brightly and boldly. All hi; 

fears. 
Save, as his Annie's, were a laughter 

to him. 
Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing 

man 
Bow'd himself down, and in that mys- 



Where God-in-man 

in-God, 
Pray'd for a blessing on hi: 



it) 



, if he cared 



Besought him, supplicating, if h 
For her or his dear children. 



t lor his own self caring but her, 
nd her children, let her plead in 



.So grieving held his will, and bore it 



For Enoch parted with his old sea- 
Bought Annie goods and stores, and 

set his hand 
To fit their little streetward sitting- 
room 
With shelf and corner for the goods 

and stores. 
So all day long till Enoch's last at 



Shakii 



the 



pretty cabin, hammer 



Auger and saw, while Annii 

to hear 
Her own death-scaffold raisini 




j.shrill'd 
nded, and his careful 
; narrow, — having or- 



. one with man- 
ife and 
Whatever came to him : and then he 

' Annie, this voyage by the grace of 

God 
Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. 
Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire 

for me. 
For I'll be back, my girl, before you 

know it.' 
Then lightly rocking baby's cradle 

' and he. 
This pretty, puny, weakly little one, — 
Nay — for I love him all the better for 

God bless him, he shall sit upon my 

knees 
And I will tell him tales of foreign 

parts, 
And make him merry, when I come 

cheer up before 



Him running on thus hopefully she 
heard. 
And almost hoped herself; but when 



graver 



and close 



Natu 



he 
j The current of his talk 

things 
In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing 
On providence and trust in Heaven, 

she heard, 





E?ioih Ariicn. 



Heard and not heard him; as the vil- 
lage girl, 

Who sets her pitcher underneath the 
spring, 

Musing on him that used to fill it for 



At length she spoke ' O Enoch, yon 
are wise ; 
And yet for all your wisdom well know 



'Well then,' said Enoch, 'I shall 
look on yours. 
Annie, the sliip I sail in passes here 
(He named the day) get you a sea- 
man's glass. 
Spy out my face, and laugh at all your 
fears.' 

But when the last of those last mo- 
ments came, 

' Annie, my girl, cheer up, be com- 
forted. 

Look to the babes, and till I cunie 
again 

Keep everything shipshape, for I must 
go- 

And fear no more for me; or if you 
fear 

Cast all your cares on God ; that an- 
chor holds. 

Is He not yonder in those uttermost 

Parts of the morning ? if I flee to 
these 

Can I go from Him .' and the sea is 
His, 

The sea is His : He made it.' 

Enoch rose. 
Cast his strong arms about his droop- 
ing wife, 



And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little 



But for the third, the sickly one, w 

, slept 
After a night of feverous wakefulne 
When Annie would have raised h 
Enoch said 





' Wake him not; let him sleep: 

should the child 
Remember this ? ' and kiss'd h 



from her baby's forehead 



dipt 
.\ tiny curl, and gave it : this 

kept 
Thro' all his future; but now ha 

caught 
His bundle, waved his hand, andi 

his way. 

.She when the day, that Enoch i 
tion'd, came, 
Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain : 



She could not fix tl 

eye; 
Perhaps her eye wa 

lous ; 
She saw him not : 

on deck 
Waving, the monn 

past. 



1 the 



le glass to suit her 
IS dim, hand tremu- 
and while he stood 
ent and the vessel 

dip of the vanish- 



ing! 



She watch'd it, and departed weeping 

for him ; 
Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as 

his grave, 
Set her sad will no less to chime with 

his. 
But throve not in her trade, not being 

bred 
To barter, nor compensating the 

want 
By shrewdness, neither capable of 

lies, 
\or asking overmuch and taking less. 
And still foreboding 'what would 

Enoch sav ? ' 
For more than 6nce, in davs of diffi- 
culty 
And pressure, had she sold her wares 

for less 
Than what she 

she sold : 
She fail'd and sadden'd k 

and thus, 
Expectant of that news which 

came. 



n buying what 






Gain'd for her own 

nance, 
And lived a life of silent melancholy. 

Now the third child was sickly-born 

Yet sicklier, the' the mother cared for 

[Other's care : neverthe- 

business often call'd her 

hat it needed 



^•ith all a IT 

less, 
Whether her 

from it, 
Or thro' the want of 

Or means to pay the voice who best 

could tell 
What most it needed — howsoe'er it 

was, 
j\fter a lingering, — ere she was 

Like the caged bird escaping sud- 
denly. 
The little innocent soul flitted away. 



=k whe 



In that samt 

buried it, 
Philip's true heart, which hunger'd 

for her peace 
(Since Enoch left he had not look'd 

upon her). 
Smote him, as having kept aloof so 

long. 
' .Surely,' said Philip, ' I may see her 

now. 
May be some little comfort ; ' there- 
fore went. 
Past thro' the solitary room in front, 
Paused for a moment at an inner door, 
Then struck it thrice, and, no one 

opening, 
Enter'd ; but Annie, seated with her 

grief. 
Fresh from the burial of her littid 

Cared not to look on any human i:ic-. 
But turn'd her own toward the wall 

and wept. 
Then Philip standing up said falter- 

ingly 
• Annie, I came to ask a favor of you.' 

spoke ; the passion in her 
'd reply 




am ! ' half abash'd him ; vet un- 
ask'd, 
His bashfulness and tenderness at 



himself beside her, saying to 
peak to you of what he 



her 



l came to : 
wish'd, 
Enoch, }-our husTjand 



I ha 



You chose the best among us — a 

strong man : 
For where he iixt his heart he set his 

hand 
To do the thing he will'd, and bore it 

thro'. 
And wherefore did he go this weary 

way. 
And leave vou lonely ? not to see the 

world— 
For pleasure? — nay, but for the 

wherewithal 
To give his babes a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or yours : that was 

And if he come again, vext will he be 

To find the precious morning hours 
were lost. 

And it would vex him even in his 
grave, 

If he could know his babes were run- 
ning wild 

Like colts about the waste. So, An- 



kno 



each other all 



I do beseech you by the love you bear 
Ilim and his children not to say me 

nay — 
For, if you will, when Enoch comes 

again 
Why then he shall repay me — if you 

Annie — for I am rich and well-to-do. 
Xovv let me put the boy and girl to 

school : 
This is the favor that I came to 8sk.' 





Enoch Anien, 



Answer'd ' I cannot look yuu ii> the 

face ; 
I seem so foolish and so broken down. 
When you came in my sorrow broke 

me down ; 
And now I think your kindness 

breaks me down ; 
But Enoch lives ; that is borne in on 

He will repay you : money can be re- 
paid; 
Not kindness such as yours.' 

And Philip ask'd 
' Then you will let me, Annie ? ' 



She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes 

.■\nd dwelt a moment on his kindly 

face. 
Then calling down a blessing on his 

head 
Caught at his hand, and wrung it 

passionately. 
And past into the little garth bevc 
.So lift( 



spirit he 



Then Philip put the boy and girl to 

school. 
And bought them needful books, and 

everyway. 
Like one who' does his duty by his 

Made himself theirs ; and tho' for An- 
nie's sake, 

Fearing the lazy gossip of the port, 

He oft denied his heart his dearest 
wish, 

.•\nd seldom crost her threshold, yet 
he sent 

Gifts bv the children, garden-herbs 
and fruit, 

The late and early roses from his 
wall, 

( Ir conies from the down, and now 
and then. 

With some pretext of fineness in the 



the offence of charitable, 




the 




ill mill that whistled 
did not fathi 



But Philip 
mind : 

.Scarce could the woman 
came upon her, 

Out of full heart and boundless grati- 
tude 

Light on a broken word to thank him 
with. 

But Philip was her children's all-in- 
all; 

From distant corners of the street 
they ran 

To greet his hearty welcome heartily; 

Lords of his house and of his mill 
were they ; 

Worried his passive ear with petty 
wrongs 

Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd 
with him 

And call'd him Father Philip. Philip 
gain'd 

As Enoch lost; for Enoch seemd to 
them 

Uncertain as a vision or a dream. 

Faint as a figure seen in early dawn 

Down at the far end of an ave- 
nue. 

Going we know not where : and so ten 

Since Enoch left his hearth and na- 
tive land. 

Fled forward and no news of Enoch 
came. 

It chanced one evening Annie's 

children long'd 
To go with others, nutting to the 

wood. 
And Annie would go with them ; then 

they begg'd 
For Father Philip (as they call'd him) 

Him, like the working bee in blossom- 
dust, 

Blanch'd with his mill, they found ; 
and saying to him 

' Come with us Father Philip ' he 
denied ; 

But when the children pluck'd at him 





But after scaling half the weary 

down. 
Just where the prone edge of the wood 

began 
To feather toward the hollow, all her 

force 
Fail'd her ; and sighing, ' Let me rest ' 



she said : 



So Phi 



nth h< 



well-con- 
with jubi- 



While all the younger ones 

lant cries 
Broke from their elders, and tumultu- 

ously 
Down thro' the whitening hazels made 

a plunge 
To the bottom, and dispersed, and 

bent or broke 
The lithe reluctant boughs to tear 

Their tawny clusters, crying to each 

other 
And calling, here and there, about the 

wood. 

But Philip sitting at her side forgot 
Her presence, and remember'd one 

dark hour 
Here in this wood, when like a 

wounded life 
He crept into the shadow : at last he 



Lift: 



his honest fori 

=rry they are d 
le wood. 



>nde 



Tired, Annie ? ' for she did not speak 

a word. 
'Tired.'' but her face had fall'n upon 

her hands ; 
At which, as with a kind of anger in 

him, 
' The ship was lost,' he said, ' the ship 

I'hy should you kill 

orphans quite ? ' 




Their voices make me feel so solitary.' 

;\vhat 

thing upon my 

been upon my mind so 



Then Philip con 
closer spoke 



And 



n it first 
last. O 



That tho' I know not w 

came there, 
I know that it will out 

Annie, 
It is beyond all hope, against all 

chance. 
That he who left you ten long years 

ago 
■Should still be living; well then— let 

me speak : 
I grieve to see you poor and wanting 

help : 
I cannot help you as I wish to do 
Unless — they say that women are so 

quick — 
Perhaps you know what I would have 

you know — 
I wish you for my wife. I fain would 

prove 
A father to your children : I do think 
They love me as a father : I am sure 
That I love them as if they were mine 

own ; 
And I believe, if you were fast my 

wife. 
That after all these sad uncertain 

years. 
We might be still as happy as God 

grants 
To any of his creatures. Think upon 

For I am well-to-do — no kin, no care, 
No burthen, save my care for you and 

And we have known each other all 
our lives, 

1 longer than you 



Then answer'd Annie ; tenderly she 
spoke : 
■ You have been as God's good angel 
in our house. 





Enoch Anien. 



. bless vou for it, God reward 

for it, 
Philip, with something happier t 

myself. 
Can one love twice ? can you be c 

As Enoch was? what is it that 



he 



A little after Enoch.' ' O ' she cried, 
Scared as it were, 'dear Philip, wait a 

while: 
If Enoch comes — but Enoch will not 

come — 
Yet wait a year, a year is not so 

long : 
Surely I shall be wiser in a year : 

wait a little ! ' Philip sadly said 
' Annie, as I have waited all my life 

1 well may wait a little.' ' Nay ' she 

cried 
' I am bound : you have my promise — 

in a year 
Will you not bide your year as I bide 

mine ?' 
And Philip answer'd ' I will bide my 

year.' 

Here both were mute, till Philip 
glancing up 

Beheld the dead fiame of the fallen 
day 

Pass from the Danish barrow over- 
head ; 

Then fearing night and chill for 
Annie, rose 

And sent his voice beneath him thro' 
the wood. 

Up came the children laden with their 

Then all descended to the port, and 

there 
At Annie's door he paused and gave 

his hand. 
Saying gently ' Annie, when I spoke 

That was your hour of weakness. I 

was wrong, 
I am always bound to you, but you 

are free.' 
Then Annie weeping answer'd 'I am 




She spoke ; and in one moment as 

While yet she went about her house- 
hold ways. 
Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest 

That he had' loved her longer than 




she kne 



Th: 



flash'd 
before 



And there he stood on 

her face. 
Claiming her promise. ' Is it a vear ? ' 

she ask'd. 
' Yes, if the nuts ' he said ' be ripe 

again : 
Come out and see.' Hut she — she 

put him off — 
So much to look to — such a change — 

a month — 
Give her a month — she knew that she 

was bound — 
A month— no more. Then Philip 

with his eyes 
Full of that lifelong hunger, and his 



ke a drunkard's 
, Annie, take 



Shaking a littl 
hand, 

' Take your own tim 
your own time.' 

And Annie could have wept for pity 
of him ; 

And yet she held him on delayingly 

With many a scarce-believable ex- 
cuse, 

Trying his truth and his long-suffer- 
ance, 

Till half-auother year had slipt away. 

By this the lazy gossips of the port, 
Abhorrent of a calculation crost. 
Began to chafe as at a personal wrong. 
Some thought that Philip did but 

trifle with her ; 
Some that she but held off to draw 

him on ; 
And others laugh'd at her and Philip 

too. 
As simple folk that knew not their 

own minds, 
And one. in whom all evil fancies 

clung 
Like serpent eggs together, laughingly 





Enoch Arden. 



Would hint at worse in eitlier. Her 

Was silent,"^ tlio' lie often look'd ills 

the daughter prest upon 

To wed the man so dear to all of them 
And lift the household out of pov- 

And Philip's rosy face contracting 

grew 
Careworn and wan ; and all these 

things fell on her 
Sharp as reproach. 

At last one night it chanced 
That Annie could not sleep, but 

earnestly 
Pray'd for a sign ' my Enoch is he 

gone ? ' 
Then compass'd round by the blind 

wall of night 
Brook'd not the expectant terror of 



uck herself 
holy 



Started from bed, 

a light. 
Then desperately seized 

Book, 

Suddenly set it wide to find a sign. 
Suddenly put her finger on the text, 
' Under the palm-tree.' That was 

nothing to her : 
No meaning there; she closed the 

Book and slept : 
When lo ! her Enoch sitting on a 

height. 
Under a palm-tree, over him the Sun : 
' He is gone,' she thought, ' he is 

happy, he is singing 
Hosanna in the highest: yonder 

shines 
The Sun of Righteousness, and these 

be palms 
Whereof the happy people strowing 

cried 
" Hosanna in the highest ! " ' Here 

she woke. 
Resolved, sent for him and said wildlv 



is no reason why we should 



' Then for God's sake,' he answer 
'both our sakes. 




So 




So these i 

the bells. 
Merrily rang the bells and they were 

wed. 
But never merrily beat Annie's heart. 
A footstep seem'd to fall beside her 

path. 
She knew not whence ; a whisper on 

her ear, 
She knew not what ; nor loved she to 

be left 
Alone at home, nor ventured out alone. 
What ail'd her then, that ere she en- 

ter'd, often 
Her hand dwelt lingeringlv on the 

latch. 
Fearing to enter: Philip thought he 

knew : 
Such doubts and fears were couniion 



hen her child 
as as herself 



Being with child : but 



Then her new child w 
renew'd. 

Then the new mother came about her 
heart, 

Then her good Philip was her all-in- 
all, 

And that mysterious instinct wholly 
died. 

And where was Enoch ? jjrosper- 
ously sail'd 

The ship ' Good Fortune,' tho' at set- 
ting forth 

The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, 
shook 

And almost overwhelm'd her, yet im- 

She slipt across the summer of the 

world. 
Then after a long tumble about the 

Cape 
And frequent interchange of foul and 

fair, 
She passing thro' the summer world 

again, 
The breath of heav 

ally 
And sent her sweetly bv the 





Enoch Ardcn. 



rill silent in her on 



iita) haven. 

himself, 



There Enoch traded for 
and bought 
(Quaint <nonsters for the market of 

those times, 
A gilded dragon, also, for the babes. 

Less lucky her home-voyage : at 
first indeed 
Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by 
day, 

;king, her full-busted figure- 
,d 

:r the ripple feathering from 
her bows : 
Then foUow'd calms, and then winds 

variable, 
Then baffling, a long course of them ; 

and last 
.Storm, such as drove her under moon- 
less heavens 
Till hard upon the cry of ' breakers ' 



fc)Carce-ro( 

he: 

Stared o'< 



1, and the loss of 
o others. Half the 



all 
Hut Enoch and 

Kuoy"d upon floating tackle and 

broken spars. 
These drifted, stranding on an isle at 

morn 
Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. 

No want was there of human suste- 
nance, 
.Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nour- 
ishing roots ; 
Nor save for pity was it hard to take 
The helpless life so wild that it was 

There in a seaward-gazing mountain- 
gorge 

They built, and thatch'd with leaves 
of palm, a hut. 

Half hut. half native cavern. So the 
three, 

Set in this Eden of all plenteousness, 

Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-con- 
tent. 





Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and 
wreck, 

Lay lingering out a five-years' death- 
in-life. 

They could not leave him. After he 

The two remaining found a fallen 
trade, careless of 

in Indian fashion, 

fell 
Sun-stricken, and that other lived 

alone. 
In those two deaths he read God's 

warning ' wait.' 



stem ; 
And Enoch's 

himself, 
Eire-hollowinc 



The 



in wooded 



the 



the peak, 
. like ways 
of 



And winding glades high up 1 

to Heaven, 
The slender coco's drooping ( 

plumes. 
The lightning flash of insect and of 

bird. 
The lustre of the long convolvuluses 
That coil'd around the stately stems, 

and ran 
Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows 
And glories of the broad belt of the 

world. 
All these he saw ; but what he fain 

had seen 
He could not see, the kindly human 

face. 
Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but 

heard 
The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean- 
fowl. 
The league-long roller thundering on 

the reef. 



And blossom'd in the 

sweep 
Of 



the 



vulet to the 



e precipitous 

wave. 
As down the shore he ranged, or all 

day long 
Sat often in the seaward-gazing : 
A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting 

sail : 
No sail from day to day, bu 





E7wch Arden. 



The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts 
Among the pahns and ferns and prec- 
ipices ; 
The blaze upon the waters to the 

The blaze upon his island overhead ; 
The blaze upon the waters to the 

Then the great stars that globed 
themselves in Heaven, 

The hoUower-bellowing ocean, and 
again 

The scarlet shafts of sunrise — but no 



There often as he watch'd or seem'd 

to watch, 
So still, the golden lizard on him 

paused, 
A phantom made of many phantoms 

moved 
Before him haunting him, or he him- 
self 
Moved haunting people, things and 

places, known 
Far in a darker isle beyond the line ; 
The babes, their babble, Annie, the 

small house. 
The climbing street, the mill, the leafy 

lanes. 
The peacock-yewtree and the lonely 

Hall, 
The horse he drove, the boat he sold, 

the chill 
November dawns and dewy-glooming 

The gentle shower, the smell of dying 

leaves. 
And the low moan of leaden-color'd 



Once likewise, in the rir 
ears, 
."ho' faintly, merrily — fa 



ging of his 
■ and far 

He heard the pealing of his parish 

bells ; 
Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, 

started up 
Shuddering, and when the beauteous 

hateful isle 
Return'd upon him, had not his poor 





Spoken with That, which being evei 

Lets none, who speaks with Hi 

seem all alone. 
Surely the man had died of solitude. 

Thus over Enoch's early-silvering 

head 
The sunny and rainy seasons came 

and went 
Year after year. His hopes to see 

his own, 
And pace the sacred old familiar 

fields. 
Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely 

doom 
Came suddenly to an end. Another 

ship 
(She wanted water) blown by bafHing 

winds. 
Like the Good Fortune, from her des- 
tined course, 
Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where 

she lay : 
For since the mate had seen at early 

dawn 
Across a break on the mist-wreathen 

The silent water slipping from the 

hills, 
They sent a crew that landing burst 

away 
In search of stream or fount, and fiU'd 

the shores 
With clamor. Downward from his 

mountain gorge 
Stept the long-hair'd long-bearded 

solitary. 
Brown, looking hardly human, 

strangely clad. 
Muttering and mumbling, idiotlike it 

seem'd. 
With inarticulate rage, and making 

signs 
They knew not what ; and yet he led 

the way 
To where the' rivulets of sweet water 

ran ; 
And ever as he mingled with the crew, 
And heard them talking, his lony- 

bounden tongue 
Was loosen'd, till he made then 

understand ; 




1 




AH 1 13 


Arden. 119 


>i 




Enoch 


Whom, when their casks were fill'd 


Cut off the length of highway on 




they took aboard : 


before, 


. 




And there the tale he utter'd brokenly. 


And left but narrow breadth to left 


1 




W> Scarce-credited at first but more and 


and right tAj 




more, 


Of wither'd holt or tilth or pastur- 




Amazed and melted all who listen'd to 


age. 




it : 


On the nigh-naked tree the robin 




And clothes they gave him and free 


piped 




passage home ; 


Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping 




]!ut oft he work'd among the rest and 


haze 




shook 


The dead weiglit of the dead leaf bore 




His isolation from him. None of 


it down : 




these 


Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the 




Came from his country, or could 


gloom ; 




answer him. 


Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted 




If question'd, aught of what he cared 


light 




to know. 


Flared on him, and he came upon the 




And dull the voyage was with long 


■ place. 




delays, 






The vessel scarce sea-worthy; but 


Then down the long street having 




evermore 


slowly stolen, 




His fancy fled before the lazy wind 


His heart foreshadowing all calam- 




Returning, till beneath a clouded 


ity. 




moon 


His eyes upon the stones, he reach'd 




He like a lover down thro' all his 


the home 




blood 


Where Annie lived and loved him, and 




Drew in the dewy meadowy morning- 


his babes 




breath 


In those far-off seven happv years 




Of England, blown across her ghostly 


were born ; 




wall : 


But finding neither light nor murmur 




And that same morning officers and 


there 




men 


(A bill of sale gleam'd thro' the 




Levied a kindly tax ui^on them- 


drizzle) crept 
Still downward thinking ' dead or dead 




selves. 




Pitying the lonely man, and gave him 


to me ! ' 




Then moving up the coast thev landed 


Down to the pool and narrow wharf 




him, 


he went. 




Ev'n in that harbor whence he sail'd 


Seeking a tavern which of old he 




before. 


knew, 
A front of timber-crost antiquity. 
So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old. 




There Enoch spoke no word to any 




one, 


He thought it must have gone ; but he 




But homeward— home— what home ? 


Who kept it ; and his widow Miriam 




had he a home ? 




His home, he walk'd. Bright was 


Lane, 




that afternoon. 


With daily-dwindling profits held the 




«Y> Sunny but chill; till drawn thro' 


house ; ey 






either chasm. 


A haunt of brawling seamen once, but J 1 






Where either haven open'd on the 


now \ ■ 






deeps, 


Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering 






RoU'd a sea-haze and whelm'd the 


men 






world in gray ; 

K, , - 


There Enoch rested silent many days. 1 


II 1 13 i. 1 \ \isy\ 1 






i 








Kr\ 1 j-j ? : 1 rrK 




' ■ 1 20 Enoch 


Anicn. 


But Miriam Lane was good and 


The bird of passage, till he madly 




- • garrulous, 


strikes - . 






Nor let him be, but often breaking in. 


Against it, and beats out his weary life. 






W> Told him, with other annals of the 








port, 


For Philip's dwelling fronted on the 






Not knowing— Enoch was so brown, 


street. 






so bow'd. 


The latest house to landward ; but be- 






So broken— all the story of his house. 


hind. 






His baby's death, her growing poverty, 
How Philip put her little ones to 


With one small gate that openVl on 






the waste. 






school, 


Flourish'd a little garden square and 






And kept them in it, his long wooing 


wall'd : 






her. 


And in it throve an ancient evergreen. 






Her slow consent, and marriage, and 


A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk 






the birth 


Of shingle, and a walk divided it : 






Of Philip's child : and o'er his counte- 


But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk 






nance 


and stole 






No shadow past, nor motion : any'one, 


Up by the wall, behind the yew ; and 






Regarding, well had deem'd he felt the 


thence 






tak 


That which he l^etter might have 






Less than the teller : only when she 


shunn'd, if griefs 






dosed 


Like his have worse or better, Enoch 






' Enoch, poor man, was cast away and 

lost' 
He, shaking his gray head pathetically, 


saw. 






For cups and silver on the burnish'd 






Repeated muttering ' cast away and 


board 






lost ; ' 


Sparkled and shone ; so genial was 






Again in deeper inward whispers 


the hearth : 






' lost ! ' 


And on the right hand of the hearth 
he saw 






But Enoch yearn'd to see her face 


Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, 






again ; 


Stout, rosy, with his babe across his 






' If I might look on her sweet face 


knees ; 






again 


And o'er her second father stoopt a 






And know that she is happy.' So the 


girl. 


j 




thought 


A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 






Haimted and harass'd him, and drove 


Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her 






him forth, 


lifted hand 


1 




At evening when the dull November 


Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 






day 


To tempt the babe, who rear'd his 






Was growing duller twilight, to the 


creasy arms, 






hill. 


Caught at and ever miss'd it, and thev 






There he sat down aazing on all 


• laugh'd : 






below ; 


And dn the left hand of the hearth he 






There did a thousand memories roll 


saw 






upon him, 


The mother glancing often toward her 






Unspeakable for sadness. Bv and by 


babe, 






'^ The ruddy square of comfortable 


But turning now and then to speak "m* 






J t light. 


with him, J 1 






Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's 


Her son, who stood beside her tall 






house, 


and strong, 






Allured him, as the beacon-blaze 


And saving that which pleased him. 






allures 


for he smiled. 








1 








_i 




Enoch Arden. 



Now when the dead man come to 

life beheld 
nfe his wife no more, and saw 

the babe 
Hers, yet not his, upon the father's 

knee. 
And all the warmth, the peace, the 

happiness. 
And his own children tall and beauti- 
ful, 
And him, that other, reigning in his 

place. 
Lord of his rights and of his children's 

love, — 
Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told 



Because things seen are mightier than 

things heard, 
Stagger'd and shook, holding the 

branch, and fear'd 
To send abroad a shrill and terrible 

cry, 
Which in one moment, like the blast 

of doom. 
Would shatter all the happiness of the 

hearth. 

He therefore turning softly like a 
thief. 

Lest the harsh shingle should grate 
underfoot. 

And feeling all along the garden- 
wall, 

Lest he should swoon and tumble and 
be found. 

Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and 
closed, 

As lightly as a sick man's chamber- 
door. 

Behind him, and came out upon the 



And there he would have knelt, but 

that his knees 
Were feeble, so that falling prone he 

dug 
His fingers into the wet earth, and 

pray'd. 

' Too hard to bear ! why did they 
take me thence ? 
O God Almightv, blessed Saviour, 
Thou 




That didst uphold me on my lonely 

isle, 
Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness 
A little longer! aid me, give me 

strength 
Not to tell her, never to let her know. 
Help me not to break in upon her 

peace. 
My children too ! must I not speak to 

these .' 
They know me not. I should betray 

myself. 
Never : No father's kiss for me— the 

girl 
So like her mother, and the boy, my 

son.' 

There speech and thought and na- 
ture fail'd a little, 
And he lay tranced ; but when he rose 

and paced 
Back toward his solitary home again, 
All down the long and narrow street 

he went 
Beating it in upon his weary brain. 
As tho' it were the burthen of a song, 
' Not to tell her, never to let her 



all unhappy. His 




know.' 



He was m 
solve 

Upbore him, and firm faith, and ever- 
more 

Prayer from a living source within the 

And beating up thro' all the bitter 

world. 
Like fountains of sweet water in the 

sea, 
Kept him a living soul. ' This miller's 

wife ' 
He said to Miriam ' that you spoke 

about. 
Has she no fear that her first hus- 
band lives?' 
' Ay, ay, poor soul ' said Miriam, 

' fear enow ! 
If you could tell her you had seen him 

dead. 
Why, that would be her comfort ; ' 

and he thought 
' After the Lord has call'd me she 

shall know. 





Enoch Arden. 



d Enoch set him- 
work whereby to 

Almost to all things could he turn his 

hand. 
Cooper he was and carpenter, and 

wrought 
To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or 

help'd 
At lading and unlading the tall barks, 
That brought the stinted commerce of 

those days ; 
Thus earn'd a scanty living for him- 
self : 
Yet since he did but labor for himself, 
Work without hope, there was not 

lite in it 
Whereby the man could live ; and as 

the year 
RoU'd itself round again to meet the 

day 
When Enoch had return'd, a languor 

Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually 

Weakening the man, till he could do 
no more, 

But kept the house, his chair, and last 
his bed. 

And Enoch bore Ifis weakness cheer- 
fully. 

For sure no gladlier does the stranded 
wreck 

See thro* the gray skirts of a lifting 
squall 

The boat that hears the hope of life 
approach 

To save the life despair'd of, than he 



him, ; 



the close 



F"or thro' that dawning gleam'd a 

kindlier hope 
(.)n Enoch thinking ' after I am gone. 
Then may she learn I lov'd her to 

the last.' 
He call'd aloud for Miriam Lane and 

said 
' Woman, I have a secret — only swear. 
Before I tell you — swear upon the 

book 
Not to reveal it, till you see me dead.' 





' Dead,' clamor'd the good 

' hear him talk ! 
I warrant, man, that we shall bring 

' Swear ' added Enoch sternly, ' on 
the book.' 

And on the book, half-frighted, Mir- 
iam swore. 

Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes 
upon her, 

'Did you know Enoch Arden of this 
town ? ' 

'Know him?' she said, 'I knew him 
far away. 

Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the 

Held his head high, and cared for no 

Slowly and sadly Enoch answer'dher; 
' His head is low, and no man cares 

for him. 
I think I have not three days more to 

live; 
I am the man.' At which the woman 

gave 
A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry. 
' You Arden, you ! nay, — sure he was 

a foot 
Higher than you be.' Enoch said 

again 
' My God has bow'd me down to what 

I am; 
My grief and solitude have broken 

Nevertheless, know you that I am he 
Who married — but that name has 

twice been changed — 
I married her who married Philip Rav. 
Sit, listen.' Then he told her of his 

voyage. 
His wreck, his lonely life, his coming 

back. 
His gazing in on Annie, his resolve. 
And how he kept it. As the woman 

heard, 
Fast .flow'd the current of her easy 

tears. 
While in her heart she yearn'd inces- 
santly 
To rush abroad all round the little 

haven. 
Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his 

woes ; 





But awed and promise-bounden she 

forbore. 
Saying only ' See your bairns before 

you go ! 
lih, let me fetch 'em, Arden," and 

Eager to bring them down, for Enoch 
hung 

A moment on her words, but then re- 
plied : 

' Woman, disturb me not now at the 

But let me hold my purpose till I die. 

Sit down again ; mark me and under- 
stand, 

While I have power to speak. I 
charge you now, 

When you shall see her, tell her that 
I died 

Blessing her. praying for her, loving 

Save for the bar between us, loving 

her 
As when she laid her head beside my 

And tell my daughter Annie, whom I 

So like her mother, that my latest 

breath 
Was spent in blessing her and praying 

for her. 
And tell my son that I died blessing 



And 



to Philip that I blest hii 



He never meant us anything but good. 
But if my children care to see me 

dead, 
Who hardly knew me living, let them 

I am 'their father; but she must not 
come, 

For my dead face would vex her after- 
life. 

And now there is but one of all my 
blood 

Who will embrace me in the world-to- 



is his : she 





And thought to bear it with me to my 

grave ; 
But now my mind is changed, for I 

shall see him. 
My babe in bliss : wherefore when I 

am gone, 
Take, give her this, for it may comfort 

her : 
It will moreover be a token to her, 
That I am he.' 

He ceased; and Miriam Lane 

Made such a voluble answer promis- 
ing all, 

That once again he roll'd his eyes upon 
her 

Repeating all he wish'd, and once 
again 

She promised. 

Then the tjiird night after this, 
While Enoch slumber'd motionless 

and pale. 
And Miriam watch'd and dozed at in- 
tervals. 
There came so loud a calling of the 

That all the houses in the haven 

rang. 
He woke, he rose, he spread his arms 

abroad 
Crying with a loud voice ' A sail ! a 

I am saved ; ' and so fell back and 
spoke no more. 

So past the strong heroic soul away. 
And when they buried him the little 

port 
Had seldom seen a costlier funeral. 



THE BROOK. 

Here, by this brook, we parted; I to 

the East 
And he for Italy — too late— too late : 
One whom the strong sons of the 

world despise ; 
For lucky rhymes to him were scrip 

and share. 





The Brook. 



res more than cent 
It ; 
Nor could he understand how money 

breeds, 
Thought it a dead thisg ; yet himself 

could make 
The thhig that is not as the thing that 

had he lived I In our schoolbooks 

we sav, 
Of those that held their heads above 

the crowd, 
They flourish'd then or then; but life 

in him 
Could scarce be said to flourish, only 

touch'd 
On such a time as goes before the leaf, 
When all the wood stands in a mist 

of green, 
And nothiiis: perfect : vet the brook 

he loved, 
For which, in branding siunmers of 

Bengal, 
Or ev'n the sweet half-English Neil- 

gherry air 

1 |)anted, seems, as I re-listen to it, 
Prattling the primrose fancies of the 

boy, 
To me that loved him ; for 'O brook,' 

he says, 
* O babbling brook,' says Edmund in 



Whe 



you ? ' and the brook, 
? replies. 



To bicker down a valley. 
By thirty hills I hurry dowi 



And halt a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow 

To join the brimming^ river. 
For men may come and men inay | 



Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite 
worn out. 

Darn- 





It has more ivy; there the river; and 

there 
.Stands Philip's farm where brook 

and river meet. 



in little sharps and trebles, 
I bubble into eddying bays. 
I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 
By many a tield and tallow. 

And many a fairy foreland set 
Wuh wiUow-weed and mallow. 



Jo join the t 



' But Philip chatter'd more than 
brook or bird ; 

Old Philip; all about the field.s jou 
caught 

His weary daylong chirping, like the 
dry 

High-elbow'd grigs that leap in sum- 
mer grass. 

I wind about, and in and out. 
With here a blossom sailing, 

And here and there a lusty trout. 
And here and there a grayling. 



and there a foamy flake 



Above the gold 



' O darling Katie Willows, his one 

child 1 
A maiden of our century, yet most 

meek ; 
A daughter of our meadows, yet not 

coarse ; 
Straight, but as lissoine as a hazel 

Her eves a bashful azure, and her 





In gloss and hue 
the shell 

Divides threefold 
within. 

' Sweet Katie, on 



the chestnut, when 
to show the fruit 

ice I did her a good 
and be- 



Her and her far-off cous 

trothed, 
James Willows, of one name and 

heart with her. 
For here I came, twenty years back — 

the week 
Before I parted with poor Edmund ; 

crost 
By that old bridge which, half in ruins 

then. 
Still makes a hoary eyebrow for the 

gleam 
Beyond it, where the waters marry — 



Whistling a randon 



bar of Bon 
>'s garden-ga 



And ])ush'd at Phi 

The gate. 
Half-parted from a weak and scolding 

hinge. 
Stuck ; and he clamor'd from a case- 
To Katie somewhere in the walks be- 

" Run, Katie ! " Katie never ran : 

she moved 
To meet me, winding under woodbine 

bowers, 
A little flutter'd, with her eyelids 

down, 
Fresh aiiple-blossoni, blushing for a 

'What was it? less of sentiment 

than sense 
Had Katie; not illiterate; nor of 

those 
Who dabbling in the fount of Active 

And nursed by mealy-mouth'd philan- 
thropies, 

Divorce the Feeling from her mate 
the Deed. 

' She told me. She and James had 
quarrell'd. Why .= 





What cause of quarrel 

James had no cause : but when I 
prest the cause, 

I learnt that James had flickering jea- 
lousies 

Which anger'd her. Who anger'd 
James ? I said. 

But Katie snatch'd her eyes at once 
from mine, 

And sketching with her slender 
pointed foot 

Some figure like a wizard pentagram 

On garden gravel, let my query 
pass 

Unclaim'd, in flushing silence, till I 
ask'd 

If James were coming. " Coming 
every day," 

She answer'd, "ever longing to ex- 
plain, 

But evermore her father came across 

With some long-winded tale, and 
broke him short ; 

And James departed vext with him 
and her." 

How could I help her.' " Would I — 
was it wrong ? " 

(Claspt hands and that petitionary 
grace 

Of sweet seventeen subdued me ere 
she spoke) 

" O would I take her father for one 
hour, 

For one half-hour, and let him talk to 
me ! " 

And even while she spoke, I saw- 
where James 

iVIade toward us, like a wader in the 



' O Katie, what I suffer'd for yo 
sake ! 
For in I went, and calTd old Phil 

! To show the farm : full willin 

rose : 
He led me thro' the short 

smelling lanes 
Of his wheat-suburb, babbling 

went. 





id, his horses, his 

He praised his ploughs, his cows, his 

hogs, his dogs ; 
He praised his hens, his geese, his 

guinea-hens ; 
His pigeons, who in session on their 

roofs 
Approved him, bowing at their own 

deserts : 
Then from the plaintive mother's teat 

he took 
Her blind and shuddering puppies, 

naming each, 
And naming those, his friends, for 

whom they were : 
Then crost the common into Darnley 

chase 
To show Sir Arthur's deer. In 

copse and fern 
Twinkled the innumerable ear and 

tail. 
Then, seated on a serpent-rooted 

beech. 
He pointed out a pasturing colt, and 

said: 
"That was the four-year-old I sold 

the Squire." 
And there he told a long long-winded 

tale 
Of how the Squire had seen the colt 

And how it was the thing his daughter 

wish'd, 
And how he sent the bailiff to the farm 
To learn the price, and what the price 

he ask'd. 
And how the bailiff swore that he was 

mad. 
But he stood firm ; and so the matter 



and five days after 
at the Golden 
had offer'd some- 
ind so the matter 
; the colt would 
e : and how by 



Fleece, 
Who then and ther 

thing more, 
But he stood firm ; 



He knew the man 

fetch its price 

gave them lir 




(It might be May or April, he forgot, 
The last of April or the first of May) 
He found the bailiff riding by the 

farm. 
And, talking from the point, he drew 




And ther 



dlow'd all his hear 



breathed in sight of 
recom- 



' Then, 

haven, he. 
Poor fellow, could he help 

nienced, 

And ran thro' all the coltish chronicle. 
Wild Will, Black Bess, Tantivy, 

Tallyho, 
Reform, White Rose, Bellerophon, 

the Jilt, 
Arbaces, and Phenomenon, and the 

Till, not to die a listener, I arose. 
And with me Philip, talking still ; and 

We turn'd our foreheads from the 

falling sun. 
And following our own shadows thrice 

as long 
As when they follow'd us from Philip's 

door. 
Arrived, and found the sun of sweet 



.en in Katie's 
things well. 



eyes 



and all 



I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 

I slide by hazel covers ; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
.\mong my skimming swallows ; 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 










/<m 1 —i-i 


I \ IF 


> 




1 


Aylmer 


s Field. 127 


i-i, 


Yes, men may come and go; and 


That Katie laugh'd, and laughing 




these are gone. 


blush'd, till he 








All gone. Mv dearest brother. Ed- 


Laugh'd also, but as one before he 






«^ ' mund, sleeps, 


wakes, '^ 




Not by the well-known stream and 


Who feels a glimmering strangeness 




rustic spire, 


in his dream. 




But unfamiliar Arno, and the dome 


Then looking at her; 'Too happy. 




Of Brunelleschi ; sleeps in peace : and 


fresh and fair. 




he. 


Too fresh and fair in our sad world's 




Poor Philip, of all his lavish waste of 


best bloom. 




words 


To be the ghost of one who bore your 




Remains the lean P. W. on his tomb : 


name 




I scraped the lichen from it: Katie 


About these meadows, twenty years 




walks 


ago.' 




By the long wash of Australasian seas 






Far off, and holds her head to other 
stars, 


' Have you not heard.' ' said Katie, 
■ we came back. 




And breathes in April-autumns. All 


We bought the farm we tenanted 
before. 




are gone.' 






Am I so like her.' so they said on 




.So Lawrence Aylmer, seated on a 


board. 




stile 


Sir, if you knew her in her English 




In the long hedge, and rolling in his 


days, 




My mother, as it seems yon did, the 




Old waifs of rhyme, and bowing o'er 


days 




the brook 


That most she loves to talk of, come 




A tonsured head in middle age for- 


with me. 




lorn. 


Mv brother James is in the harvest- 




Mused, and was mute. On a sudden 


field : 




a low breath 


But she— yon will be welcome— O, 




Of tender air made tremble in the 

hedge 
The fragile bindweed-bells and briony 


come in ! ' 








rings ; 






And he look'd up. There stood a 


AYLMER'S FIELD. 




maiden near. 






Waiting to pass. In much amaze he 


■793- 




stared 






On eyes a bashful azure, and on hair 


Dust are our frames; and, gilded 




In gloss and hue the chestnut, when 


dust, our pride 




the shell 


Looks only for a moment whole and 




Mivides threefold to show the fruit 


sound ; 




within : 


Like that long-buried body of the 




Then, wondering, ask'd her ' Are you 


king. 




from the farm ? ' 


Found lying with his urns and orna- 




' Yes,' answer'd she. ' Pray stay a 


ments. 




little: pardon me; 


Which at a touch of light, an air of 




*nP What do they call you?' 'Katie.' 


heaven, '^ 






• That were strange. 


Slipt into ashes, and was found no 






What surname.?' 'Willows.' 'No!' 


more. 






' That is my name.' 








'Indeed!' and here he look'd so 


Here is a story which in rougher 




^ 


self-perplext, 


shape 




3 1 \ I 11 1 L^JV 


1 




Aylmcr's Fuld. 



Came from a grizzled cripple, whom I 



Sunning himself in a waste field 

alone — 
Old, and a mine of memories — who 

had served, 
Long since, a bygone Rector of the 

place, 
And been hmiself a part of what he 

told. 

Sir Aylmer Aylmf.r, that almighty 

The county God — in whose capacious 

hall. 
Hung with a hundred shields, the 

family tree 
Sprang from the midriff of a prostrate 

king— 
Whose blazing svyvern weathercock'd 



the 



spir 



Stood from his walls and wing'd his 

entry-gates 
And swang besides on many a windy 

Whose eyes from under a jiyramidal 

head 
Saw from his windows nothing save 

What lovelier of his own had he than 

her. 
His only child, his Edith, whom he 

loved 
As heiress and not heir regretfully? 
liut ' he tliat marries her marries her 

name.' 
This 'fiat somewhat soothed himself 

■ and wife. 
His wife a faded beauty of the Baths, 
Insipid as the Queen upon a card ; 
Her all of thought and bearing hardly 



Th; 



his own shadow in a sicklv ; 



A land of hops and poppy-mingled 

corn, 
Little about it stirring save a brook ! 
A sleepv land, where under the same 

Wheel 
The same old rut would deepen year 

by year , 
Where almost all the village had one 





Where Avlmer followed , 

the Hall 
And Averill Averill at the : 
Thrice over ; so that Rectory 

Hall, 
Bound in an immemorial intimacy. 
Were open to each other; tho' to 

dream 
That Love could bind them closer 

well had made 
The hoar hair of the Baronet bristle 

up 
With horror, worse than had he heard 

his priest 
Preach an inverted scripture, sons of 

men 
Daughters of God ; so sleepy was the 

land. 

And might not Averill, had he 
will'd it 50, 

Somewhere beneath his own low- 
range of roofs. 

Have also set his many-shielded 
tree? 

There was an Aylmer-Averill mar- 
riage once. 

When the red rose was redder than 
itself, 

And York's white rose as red as Lan- 
caster's, 

With wounded peace which each had 
prick'd to death. 

'Not proven' Averill said, or laugh- 
ingly 

' Some other race of Averills ' — prov'n 
or no. 

What cared he ? what, if other or the 

He lean'd not on his fathers but him- 
self. 

But Leolin, his brother, living oft 

With Averill, and a year or two be- 
fore 

Call'd to the bar, but ever call'd away 

By one low voice to one dear neigh- 
borhood, 

Would often, in his walks with Edith, 
claim 

A distant kinship to the graciouo 
blood 

That shook the heart of Edith hear- 





Sanguine he was : a but less vivid 

hue 
Than of that islet in the chestnut- 

bloum 
Flamed in his cheek ; and eager eyes, 

that still 
Took joyful note of all things joyful, 

beam'd, 
Beneath a manelike mass of rolling 

gold, 
'1 heir best and brightest, when they 

dwelt on hers, 
Edith, whose pensive beauty, perfect 

else, 
But subject to the season or the mood, 
Shone like a mystic star between the 

And greater glory varying to and fro. 
We know not wherefore ; bounteously 

made. 
And vet so finely, that a troublous 

' touch 
Thinn'cl, or would seem to thin her in 

a day, 
A joyous to dilate, as toward the light. 
And these had been together from 

the first. 
Leolin's first nurse was, five years 

after, hers: 
So much the boy foreran ; but when 

his date 
Doubled her own, for want of play- 
mates, he 
(Since Averill was a decad and a half 
His elder, and their parents under- 
ground) 
Had tost his ball and flown his kite, 

and roll'd 
His hoo]! to pleasure Edith, with her 

di,,t 
Against the rush of the air in the 

prone swing, 
Made blossom-ball or daisy-chain, 

arranged 
Her garden, sow'd her name and kept 

it green 
In living letters, told her fairy-tales, 
Show'd her the fairy footings on the 

grass. 
The little dells of cowslip, fairy palms, 

petty marestail forest, fairy 

Or from the tiny pitted target blew 





What look'd a flight of fairy arrows 
aim'd 

All at one mark, all hitting : make-be- 
lieves 

For Edith and himself : or else he 
forged. 

But that was later, boyish histories 

Of battle, bold adventure, dungeon, 
wreck. 

Flights, terrors, sudden rescues, and 



Crown'd after trial ; sketches rude 

and faint. 
But where a passion yet unborn per- 
haps 
Lay hidden as the music of the moon 
Sleeps in tlie plain eggs of the night- 
ingale. 
And thus together, save for college- 
times 
Or Temple-eaten terms, a couple, fair 
As ever painter painted, poet sang. 
Or Heaven in lavish bounty moulded, 

And more and more, the maiden 

woman-grown. 
He wasted hours with Averill ; there, 

when first 
The tented winter-field was broken 

up 
Into that phalanx of the summer spears 
That soon should wear the garland ; 

there again 
When burr and bine were gather'd ; 

lastly there 
At Christmas ; ever welcome at the 



ide 



On whose dul 
of youth 

ISroke with a phosphorescence charm- 
ing even 

My lad\' ; and the Baronet yet had 
laid 

No bar between them : dull and self- 
involved. 

Tall and erect, but bending from his 
height 

With half-allowing smiles for all the 
world. 

And mighty courteous in the 
his pride 

Lav deeper than to wear it as his 

He, like an Aylmer m his Ayln 





Ayln 



Would care no more for Leolin's 

walking with her 
Than for his old Newfoundland's, 

v\ hen they ran 
To loose him at the stables, for he 

rose 
Twofooted at the limit of his chain, 
Roaring to make a third : and how 

should Love, 
Whom the cross-lightnings of four 

chancemet eyes ' 
Flash into fiery life from nothing, 

follow 
Such dear familiarities of dawn ? 
Seldom, but when he does. Master of 

all. 

So these young hearts not knowing 

that they loved. 
Not she at least, nor conscious of a 

bar 
Between them, nor by plight or broken 

ring 
Bound, but an immemorial intimacy, 
Wander'd at will, and oft accompanied 
By Averill : his, a brother's love, that 

hung 
With wings of brooding shelter o'er 

her peace. 
Might have been other, save for 

Leolin's — 
Who knows ? but so they wander'd, 

hour by hour 
Gather'd the blossom that rebloom'd, 

and drank 
The magic cup that fill'd itself anew. 

A whisper half reveal'd her to her- 
self. 

For out beyond her lodges, where the 
brook 

Vocal, with here and there a silence, 

I5y sallowy rims, arose the laborers' 

homes, 
A frequent haunt of Edith, on low 

knolls 
That dimpling died into each other. 




scatter'd, each a nest in 
hand, her counsel all had 




About them : here was one ihat, sum- 
mer-blanch'd. 

Was parcel-bearded with the trav- 
eller's-joy 

In Autumn, parcel ivy-clad; and here 

The warm-blue breathings of a hidden 
hearth 

Broke from a bower of vine and 
honeysuckle : 

One look'd all rosetree, and another 
wore 

A close-set robe of jasmine sown 
with stars : 

This had a rosy sea of gillyflowers 

About it ; this^ a milky-way on earth, 

Like visions in the Northern 
dreamer's heavens, 

A lily-avenue climbing to the doors ; 

One, almost to the martin-haunted 
eaves 

A summer burial deep in hollyhocks ; 

Each, its own charm; and Edith's 
everywhere ; 

.A.nd Edith ever visitant with him. 

He but less loved than Edith, of her 
poor : 

For she — so lowly-lovely and so lov- 
ing. 

Queenly responsive when the loyal 
hand 

Rose from the clay it work'd in as she 

Not sowing hedgerow texts and pas- 
sing by, 

Nor dealing goodly counsel from a 
height 

That makes the lowest hate it, but a 

Of comfort and an open hand of help, 
A splendid presence flattering the 

poor roofs 
Revered as theirs, but kindlier than 

themselves 
To ailing wife or wailing infancy 
Or old bedridden palsy,— was adored ; 
He, loved for her and for himself. A 

grasp 
Having the warmth and muscle of 

the heart, 
A childly wav with children, and a 

laugh 
Ringing like proven golden coinage 

true, 





Aylmer's Field. 



Were no false passport to that easy 
realm, 

\\'hcre once with Leolin at her side the 
girl. 

Nursing a child, and turning to the 
warmth 

The tender pink five-beaded baby- 
soles, 

Heard the good mother softly whisper 
' Bless, 

God bless 'em : marriages are made 
in Heaven.' 

A flash of semi-jealousv clear'd it 
to her. 

My lady's Indian kinsman unan- 
nounced 

With half a score of swarthy faces 
came. 

His own, tho' keen and bold and 
soldierly 

Sear'd by the close ecliptic, was not 
fair; 

Fairer his talk, a tongue that ruled 
the hour, 

Tho' seeming boastful : so when first 
he dash'd 

Into the chronicle of a deedful day. 

Sir Aylmer half forgot his lazy smile 

Of patron ' Good ! my lady's kins- 
man ! good ! ' 

My lady with her fingers interlock'd. 

And rotatory thumbs on silken knees, 

Call'd all her vital spirits into each 
ear 

To listen : unawares they flitted off, 

Busying themselves about the flower- 
age 

That stood from out a stiff brocade in 
which. 

The meteor of a splendid season, she, 

Once with this kinsman, ah so long 
ago. 

Slept thro' the stately minuet of those 
days : 

But Edith's eager fancy hurried with 
him 

Snatch'd thro' the perilous passes of 
his life: 

Till Leolin ever watchful of her eye, 

Hated him with a momentary hate. 

Wife-hunting, as the rumor ran, was 





And most on Edith : 

came, 
And shook the house, and 



Among the gifts he left her (possibly 
He flow'd and ebb'd uncertain, to re- 



When othe 

was ( 

A dagger, i 



I had been tested) there 
rich sheath with jewels 



Sprinkled about in gold that branch'd 

itself 
Fine as ice-ferns on January panes 
Made by a breath. I know not 

whence at first. 
Nor of what race, the work ; but as 

he told 
The story, storming a hill-fort of 

He got it ; for their captain after 

fight, 
His comrades having fought their 

last below. 
Was climbing up the valley ; at 

whom he shot : 
Down from the beetling crag to which 

he clung 
Tumbled the tawny rascal at his feet, 
This dagger with him, which when 

now admired 
By Edith whom his pleasure was to 

please, 
At once the costly Sahib yielded to her. 

And Leolin, coming after he was 
gone. 

Tost overall her presents petulantlv: 

And when she show'd the wealthy 
scabbard, saying 

' Look what a lovely piece of work- 
manship ! ' 

Slighf was his answer ' Well — I care 
not for it : ' 

Then playing with the blade he 
prick'd his hand, 

' A gracious gift to give a lady, this I ' 

' But would it be more gracious' ask'd 
the ^irl 




A\lme/s Field. 



'Were I to give this 
That is no lady?' 

said he. 
' Me ? — but I cared i 

don me, 



for it. O par- 



I seem to be ungraciousness itself.' 
' Take it ' she addi 
gift ; 



Jded sweetly, ' tho' hi: 



more ungracious ev'n than 



I care not for it either ; ' and he said 
' Why then I love it : but Sir Ayl- 



The next day came a neighbor. 

Blues and reds 
They talk'd of : blues were sure of it, 

he thought : 
Then of the latest fo.\ — where started 

— kill'd 
In such a bottom: 'Peter had the 

brush, 
My Peter, first : ' and did Sir Aylmer 

know 
That great pock-pitteu fellow had 

been caught ? 
Then made his pleasure echo, hand to 

hand. 
And rolling as it were the substance 



palms a moment up and 
'ere warm, the birds were 



of it 
Between hi 

dowi 
' The birds were wai 

warm upon him ; 
We have him now : ' and had Sir Avl- 

mer heard— 
Nay, but he must— the land was ring- 
ing of it — 
This blacksmith border-marriage — 

one they knew — 
Raw from the nursery — who could 

trust a child ? 
That cursed France with her egali- 

ties I 
.\nd did Sir Aylmer (deferentially 
With nearing chair and lower'd 

accent) think — 
For people talk'd — that it was wholly 

some fellow Averill 





The boy might get a notion into him; 
The girl might be entangled ere she 

knew. 
Sir Avlmer Aylmer slowly stiffening 

spoke : ' 
' 1 he girl and boy. Sir, know their 

differences ! ' 
'Good,' said his fiitnd, 'but watch! ' 

and he, ' Enougli, 
More than enough, Sir ! I can guard 

my own.' 
They parted, and Sir Aylmer Aylmer 

watch'd. 



Pale, for on 
house 
Had fallen fir 

Pale ^. 

rough 1 
Of early rigid 
Withdrawing 

that 
Which Leolii 


her the thunders 
,t, was Edith that 
Jephtha's daugh 


jf the 
same 
er, a 


color, unde 
by the com 

open'd, sh 


which 
ter door to 

e cast back 


upon h m 
A piteous glance, and va 


ish'd. 


He, 


Caught in a 


burst of 


une.xpected 



And pelted with outrageous epithets, 
Turning beheld the Powers of the 

House 
On either side the hearth, indignant; 

her. 
Cooling her false cheek with a 

featherfan. 
Him, glaring, by his own stale devil 

spurr'd, 



And, like a beast hard-ridden, breath- 




ing hard. 


' Ungenerous, dishonorable, base, 


Presumptuous! trusted as he was 


with her, 


The sole succeeder to their wealth, 


their lands. 


The last remaining pillar of their HfT 


house, 




The one transmitter of their ancient 




name. 




Their child.' 'Our child!' 'Our 




,, 'X 


] 




■OR WHILE THE PATCH WAS WORN."— /b^' <5i>- 




Aylmer's Field. 



Like echoes from beyond a hollow, 



icklier iteration. Last he saitl, 
' Boy, mark me ! for your fortunes 

are to make. 
I swear you shall not make them out 

of mine. 
Now inasmuch as you have practised 

on her, 
Perplext her, made her half forget 

herself, 
Swerve from her duty to herself and 

Tilings in an Aylmer deem'd impossi- 
ble. 

Far as we track ourselves — I sav that 
this— 

Else I withdraw favor and counte- 
nance 

From you and yours for ever — shall 
you do. 

Sir, when you see her — but you shall 
not see her — 

No, you shall write, and not to her, 
but me : 

And you shall say that having spoken 
with me, 

And after look'd into yourself, you 
find 

That you meant nothing — as indeed 
you know 

That you meant nothing. Such a 
match as this ! 

Impossible, prodigious ! ' These were 
words, 

As meted bv his measure of him- 
self, ' 

Arguins^ boundless forbearance ■ after 
vvhich. 

And Leolin's horror-stricken an- 
swer, ' I 

So foul a traitor to myself and her, 

Never oh never,' for about as long 

As the wind-hover hangs in balance, 
paused 

Sir Aylmer reddening from the storm 




Then broke 

crying 
' Boy, should I find vou by 

again, 
My men shall lash you from them like 

a dog ; 



nds of courtesy, and 
ly doors 




sudden exec 



The footstool from before him, and 

arose ; 
So, stammering ' scoundrel ' out of 

teeth that ground 
As in a dreadful dream, while Leolin 

-still 
Retreated half-aghast, the fierce old 



Folio 
Storn 



under his 

ifted hand.s, a hoar 

erence of the heartl 



tel 



Beneath a pale and 

moon, 
Vext with unworthy 

deform'd. 



nmipassion 
ladness, an 



Slowly and conscious of thi 
eye 



Tha 



ageful 
till he heard the 
lun" echoes thro' 



ponderous do 

Close, crashing with 
the land. 

Went Leolin ; then, his passions all 
in flood 

And masters of his motion, furi- 
ously 

Down thro' the bright lawns to his 
brother's ran. 

And foam'd away his heart at Aver- 



ill's . 
Whom Av 



He mu 



placed as he might, 
nazed : 

was his, had been his father's, 
lend : 

have seen, himself had seen 



known, himself had 

known • besides. 
He never yet had set his daughter 

forth 
Here in the woman-markets of the 

Where our Caucasians let themselves 

be sold. 
Some one, he thought, had slander'd 

Leolin to him. 
' Brother, for I have loved vou more 





Aylmcr's Field. 



Than brother, let 

self— 
What is their pretty saying 



tell you : I my- 
Ited, is 



Jilted I was: I say it for your peace. 

Pain'd, and, as bearing in myself the 
shame 

ri)e woman should have borne, humil- 
iated, 

I lived for years a stunted sunless life; 

Till after our good parents past 



agam to grow, 
f^eolin, I almost sin in envying you: 
The very whitest lamb in all my 

fold 
Loves you : I know her ; the worst 

thought she has 
Is whiter even than her pretty hand : 
She must prove true: for, brother, 

where two fight 
The strongest wins, and truth and 

love are strength. 
And you are happy : let her parents 

be. 

But Leolin cried out the more upon 

them — 
Insolent, brainless, heartless ! heiress, 

wealth. 
Their wealth, their heiress! wealth 

enough was theirs 
For twenty matches. Were he lord 

of tliis, 
Why twenty boys and girls should 

marry on it. 
And forty blest ones bless him, and 

himself 
Be wealthy still, av wealthier. He 

believed 
This filthy marriage-hindering Mam- 
mon made 
The harlot of the cities: nature crost 
Was mother of the foul adulteries 
That saturate soul with body. Name, 

too 1 name, 
Their ancient name ! they mio/it be 

proud ; its worth 
Was being Edith's. Ah how pale she 

had look'd 
Darling, to-night! they must have 

rated her 





Beyond all tolerance. These old 

pheasant-lords. 
These partridge-breeders of a thoii- 
andi 

thousands, 

doing nothing 
Since Egbert— why, the greater their 

disgrace ! 
Fallback upon a name! rest, rot in 

that! 
Not /vc/ it noble, make it nobler i" 

fools, 
With such a vantage-ground for noble- 



He had Uuown a man, a i 
of man. 

The life of all— who madly loved— 
and he, 

Thwarted by one of these old father- 
fools. 

Had rioted his life out, and made an 
end. 

He would not do it ! her sweet face 
and faith 

Held him from that : but he had 
powers, he knew it : 

Back would he to his studies, make a 



Nan 



To sh; 



fortune too : the world should 
ring of him 

mouldy Aylmers in 



theii 



grav 



Chancellor, or what is greatest would 

hebe— 
' O brother, I am grieved to learn 

your grief — 
Give me my fling, and let me say my 

say.'' 



At which, like one that sees his 
own excess, 

And easily forgives it as his own. 

He laugh'd; and then was mute; but 
presently 

Wept like a storm : and honest Aver- 
ill seeing 

How low his brother's mood had 
fallen, fetch 'd 

His richest beeswing from a binn 
reserved 

For banquets, praised the waning red, 
and told 





Ayhner's Field. 



The vintage — when this Aylmercame 

of age — 
Tlieii drank and past it ; till at length 

the two, 
Tho' Leolin flamed and fell again, 

agreed 
That much allowance must be made 

for men. 
After an angry dream this kindlier 

glow 
Faded with morning, but his purpose 

held. 



by night again the lovers 

meeting under the tall 

I'd all the northward of 
[all. 
meek and modest bosom 



He, passionately hopefuller, would 

Labor for his own Edith, and return 

In such a sunlight of prosperity 

He should not be rejected. ' Write to 

me ! 
They loved me, and because I love 

their child 
They hate me ; there is war between 

Which breaks all bonds but ours ; we 

must remain 
.Sacred to one another.' .So they 

talk'd, 
Poor children, for their comfort ; the 

wind blew ; 
The rain of heaven, and their own 

bitter tears. 
Tears, and the careless rain of heaven, 

mi.Kt 
Upon their faces, as they kiss'd each 

other 
In darkness, and above them roar'd 

the pine. 




SoLeoIi 




ent; and a 




n\ir- 


selv 


»s 










To learn 


a 


language 


kn 


3wn 


but 


smatte 


ringly 










random, 
of our 



In phrases here and there 

toil'd 
Mastering the lawless 

law. 

That codeless myriad of precedent. 
That wilderness of single instances. 
Thro' which a few, by wit or fortune 

led. 
May beat a pathway out to wealth and 

fame. 
The jests, that flash'd about the 

pleader's room. 
Lightning of the hour, the pun, the 

scurrilous tale, — 
Old scandals buried now seven decads 

deep 
In other scandals that have lived and 

died. 
And left the living scandal that shall 

die- 
Were dead to him already ; bent as he 

was 
To make disproof of scorn, and stL ong 

in hopes. 
And prodigal of all brain-labor he, 
Charier of sleep, and wine, and exer- 
cise. 
Except when for a breathing-while at 

eve, 
Some niggard fraction of an hour, he 

Beside the river-bank : and then 

indeed 
Harder the times were, and the hands 



ot powe 
Were bloodi( 



and the according 
) ; but the soft river- 



Seem'd harder 

breeze. 
Which fann'd the gardens of that 

rival rose 
Vet fragrant in a heart remembering 
His former talks with Edith, on him 

breathed 
Far purelierin his rushings toand fro. 
After his books, to flush his blood 

with air. 
Then to his books again. My lady's 

cousin. 
Half-sickening of his pension'd after- 
noon, 
Drove in upon the student once or 

twice. 





Aylmc 



Ran a Ma 



lUCk 



agams 



the 



Had golden hopes for France and all 

Answer'd all queries touching those at 

home 
With a heaved shoulder and a saucy 

smile, 
And fain had haled him out into the 

world, 
And air'd him there : his nearer friend 

would say 
' Screw not the chord too sharply lest 

it snap.' 
Then left alone he pluck'd her dagger 

forth 
From where his worldless heart had 

kept it warm, 
Kissing his vows upon it like a 

knight. 
And wrinkled benchers often talk'd of 

him 
Approvingly, and prophesied his rise : 
For heart, I think, help'd head : her 

letters too, 
Tho' far between, and coming fitfully 
Like broken music, written as she 

found 
Or made occasion, being strictly 

watch'd, 
Charm'd him thro' every labyrinth till 

he saw 
An end, a hope, a light breaking upon 



But thev that cast her spirit into 

fiesh. 
Her worldly-wise begetters, plagued 

themselves 
To sell her, those good parents, for 

her good. 
Whatever eldest- 



alth 



born of rank or 

their compass, him 

nt by the 



Might lie within 

they lured 
Into their net made pi 

baits 
Of gold and beauty, wooing hi 



So month by month the noise about 

their dc 
And di 




oors, 

blaze of those dull 
quets, made 




The nightly wire 

hare' 
Falter before he took it. All in vain. 
Sullen, defiant, l>itying, wroth, return'd 
Leolin's rejected rivals from their suit 
So often, that tlie fully taking wings 
Slipt o'er those lazy limits down the 

wind 
With rumor, and became in other 

fields 
A mockery to the yeomen over ale, 
And laughter to their lords : but those 

at home, 
As hunters round a hunted creature 

draw 
The cordon close and closer toward 

the death, 
Narrow'd her goings out and comings 



the hous 



ed he 



Last from her own home-circle of the 
])oor 

They barr'd her: yet she bore it : yet 
her cheek 

Kept color : wondrous ! but, O mys- 
tery ! 

What amulet drew her down to that 
old oak, 

So old, that twenty 
part 

Falling had let appf 
John— 

Once grovelike, each huge arm 



but 



ars before, a 
.ppear the brand of 

base of a black tower 



The broki 

cave 
Of touchwood, with a single flourish 

ing spray. 
There the manorial lord too cunousl; 
Raking in that millennial touchwood 

dust 
Found for him.self a bitter 



Burst his own wyvern on the seal, and 

read 
Writhing a letter from his child, for 

which 
Came at the moment Leolin's emis- 



sary, 
A crippled 

fly. 





Aylmers Field. 



rhe letter which he brought, and 
swore besides 

To play their go-between as hereto- 
fore 

Nor let them know themselves 
betray'd ; and then, 

Soul-stricken at their kindness to him, 



["henceforward oft from i 






The father panting woke, and oft, as 

dawn 
Aroused the black republic on his 

elms, 
Sweeping the frothfiy from the fescue 

brush'd 
Thro' the dim meadow toward his 

treasure-trove, 
Seized it, took home, and to my lady, — 

who made 
A downward crescent of her minion 

mouth, 
Listless in all despondence, — read ; 

As if the living passion symbol'd 
there 

Were living nerves to feel the rent ; 
and burnt, 

Now chafing at his own great self 
defied. 

Now striking on huge stumbling- 
blocks of scorn 

In babyisms, and dear diminutives 

Scatter'd all over the vocabulary 

( )f such a love as like a chidden 
child. 

After much wailing, hush'd itself at 
last 

Hopeless of answer : then tho' Aver- 

And bad him with good heart sustain 

himself — 
All would be well — the lover heeded 



restless came 




And rustling once at night about the 

place, 
There by a keeper shot at, slightly 




Raging return'd : m 

her 
Kept to the garden 

pines, 
Watch'd even there 



it well for 
lid grove of 



The watche 



iid Sir Avlmer wa'.ch'd 



Vet bitterer fron 

indeed, 
Warm'd with his wines, o 

pride in her. 
She look'd so sweet, he k 

tenderly 
Not knowing what possess'd hi: 



his readings ; once 

wines, or taking 

.'d her 



kis 



Was 



.eolin's one strong rival upon 

earth ; 
Seconded, for my lady follow'd suit, 
Seeni'd hope's returning rose : and 

then ensued 
A Martin's summer of his faded love. 
Or ordeal by kindness; after this 
He seldom'crost his child without a 



The mother 



■'d in shalk 



Never one kindly smi 
word : 



Klly 



So that the gentle creature shut from 

all 
Her charitable use, and face to face 
With twenty months of silence, slowly 

lost 
Nor greatlv cared to lose, her hold on 

life.' 
Last, some low fever ranging round 

to spy 



Or almost all that is, hurting the 

hurt — 
Save Christ as we believe him — found 

the girl 
And flung her down upon a couch of 

fire. 
Where careless of the household faces 





Aylme/s Field. 



And crying upon the name of Leolin, 
She, and with her the race of Aylmer, 
past. 



Strike thro' a finer element of her 

So,— from afar,— touch as at once ? or 

why 
That night, that moment, when she 

named his name, 
Did the keen shriek ' Yes love, yes, 

Edith, yes,' 
Shrill, till the comrade of his cham- 
bers woke. 
And came upon him half-arisen from 

sleep. 
With a weird bright eye, sweating 

and trembling. 
His hair as it were crackling into 

flames. 
His body half flung forward in pur- 
suit. 
And his long arms stretch'd as to 

grasp a flyer : 
Xor knew he wherefore he had made 

the cry ; 
And being much befool'd and idioted 
By the rough amity of the other, 

sank 
As into sleep again. The second 

day. 
My lady's Indian kinsman rushing in, 
A breaker of the bitter news from 

home. 
Found a dead man, a letter edged 

with death 
Beside him, and the dagger which 

himself 
Gave Edith, redden'dwith no bandit's 

blood : 
' From Edith ' was engraven on the 

blade. 

Then Averill went and gazed upon 
his death. 

And when he came again, his flock 
believed — 

Beholding how the years which are 
not Time's 

Had blasted him — that many thou- 
sand days 





Were dipt by horror from hii 

life. 
Yet the sad mother, for the second 

death 
Scarce touch'd her thro' that nearness 

of the first, 
And being used to find her pastor 

Sent to the harrow'd brother, praying 

him 
To speak before the people of her 

child. 
And fixt the Sabbath. Darkly that 

day rose : 
Autumn's mock sunshine of the faded 

woods 
Was all the life of it; for hard on 

these, 
A breathless burthen of low-folded 

heavens 
Stifled and chill'd at once ; but every 

roof 
Sent out a listener : many too had 

known 
Edith among the hamlets round, and 

since 
The parents' harshness and the hap- 
less loves 
And double death were widelv mur- 

mur'd, left 
Their own gray tower, or plain-faced 

tabernacle, 
To hear him ; all in mourning these, 

and those 
With blots of it about them, ribbon, 

glove 
Or kerchief; while the church,— one 

night, e.\cept 
For greenish glimmerings thro' the 

lancets, — made 
Still paler the pale head of him, who 

tower'd 
Above them, with his hopes in either 

grave. 

Long o'er his bent brows linger'd 
Averill, 

Livid he pluck'd it forth, and labor'd 




Aylmer's Field. 



Yuur house is left unto you deso- 
late! ' 

But lapsed into so long a pause 
again 

As half amazed half frighted all his 
flock: 

Then from his height and loneliness 
of grief 

Bore down in flood, and dash'd his 
angry heart 

Against the desolations of tlie world. 

Never since our bad earth became 
one sea, 

Which rolling o'er the palaces of the 
proud, 

And all but those who knew the liv- 
ing God — 

Eight that were left to make a purer 
world— 

When since had flood, fire, earth- 
quake, thunder, wrought 

Such waste and havoc as the idola- 
tries. 

W'hich from the low light of mortality 

Shot up their shadows to the Heaven 
of Heavens, 

And worshipt their own darkness in 
the Highest.' 

■ Gash thyself, priest, and honor thv 
brute Baal, 

And to thy worst self sacrifice thy- 
self, 

For with thy worst self hast thou 
clothed thy God. 

Then came a Lord in no wise like to 
Baal. 

The babe shall lead the li.m. Surely 
now 

The wilderness shall blossom as the 
rose. 

Crown thyself, worm, and worship 
thine own lusts ! — 

No coarse and blockish God of 
acreage 

Stands at thy gate for thee to grovel 
to — 

Thy God is far diffused in noble 
groves 

.\iul princely halls, and farms, and 
flowing lawns, 

.\nd heaps of living gold that daily 





And title-scrolls and gorgeous herald- 
ries. 
In such a shape dost thou behold 

thy God. 
Thou wilt not gash thy flesh for him; 

for thine 
Fares richly, in fine linen, not a hair 
RufHed upon the scarfskin, even while 
The deathless ruler of thy dying 

house 
Is wounded to the death that cannot 

die; 
And tho' thou numberest with the 

followers 
Of One who cried, " Leave all and 

follow me." 
Thee therefore with His light about 

thy feet. 
Thee with His message ringing in 

thine ears, 



Born of a village girl, carpenter's son. 
Wonderful, Prince of peace, the 

Mighty God, 
Count the more base idolater of the 

Crueller : as not passing thro" the fire 
Bodies, but souls — thy children's — 

thro' the smoke. 
The blight of low desires — darkening 

thine own 
To thine own likeness ; or if one of 

these. 
Thy better born unhappily from thee. 
Should, as by miracle, grow straight 

and fair — 
Friends, I was bid to speak of such a 

one 
By those who most have cause to sor- 
row for her — 
Fairer than Rachel by 

well. 
Fairer than Ruth among the fields of 



palmy 



as the .A.ngel that said " Ha 

she seem'd, 
o entering fill'd the house 

sudden light, 
so mine own was brighten'd : 

where indeed 
roof so lowlv but that beam of 

Heaven 


























^ 


140 Aylmer 


s Field. 


j 




Dawn'd sometime thro' the doorway? 


Him too vou loved, for he was worthy 






whose the babe 


love. 


11 








Too ranged to be fondled on her 


And these had been together from the 


If 






tXs lap, 


first ; «As 






Wanu'd at her bosom ? The poor 


Thev might have been together till 






child of shame 


the last. 






The common care #hom no one cared 


Friends, this frail bark of ours, when 






for, leapt 


sorelv tried 






To greet her, wasting his forgotten 


May wreck' itself without the pilot's 






heart. 


guilt. 






As with the mother he had never 


Without the captain's knowledge: 






known. 


hope with me. 






In gambols ; for her fresh and inno- 


Whose shame is that, if he went hence 






cent eves 


with shame ? 






Had such a star of morning in their 


Nor mine the fault, if losing both of 






blue, 


these 






That all neglected places of the field 


I cry to vacant chairs and widow'd 


1 
1 




Broke into nature's music when they 


walls. 






saw her. 


" My house is left unto me desolate." ' 






Low was her voice, but won myster- 








ious way 
Thro' the seal'd ear to which a louder 


While thus he spoke, his hearers 






wept ; but some. 








Sons of the glebe, with other frowns 






Was all but silence— free of alms her 


than those 






hand— 


That knit themselves for summer 






The hand that robed vour cottage- 


shadow, scowl'd 






walls with flowers' 


At their i>reat lord. He, when it 






Has often toil'd to clothe your little 


seen^'d he saw 






ones ; 


No pale sheet-lightnings from afar, 






How often placed upon the sick man's 


but fork'd 






brow 


Of the near storm, and aiming at his 






Cool'd it, or laid his feverous pillow 


head, 






smooth ! 


Sat anger-charm'd from sorrow, sol- 
dier-like. 






Had you one sorrow and she shared 






it not? 


Erect: but when the preacher's 






One burthen and she would not lighten 


cadence flow'd 
Softening thro" all the gentle attri- 






One spiritual doubt she did not 


butes 






soothe ? 


Of his lost child, the wife, who 






Or when some heat of difference 


watch'd his face. 






sparkled out. 


Paled at a sudden twitch of his iroii 






How sweetlv would she glide between 


mouth ; 






vour wraths. 


And • pray God that he hold up ' 






And steal you from each otiier ! (or 


she thought 






she walk'd 


' Or surely I shall shame myself and 






Wearing the light yoke of that Lord 
of love, 
^ Who still'd the rolling wave of Gali- 


hii^.' 






'Nor yours the blame— for who «Y? 






•IW 


lee! 


beside your hearths 










And one— of him I was not bid to 


Can take her place— if echoing me you 










speak- 


cry 










Was always with her, whom you also 


" Our house is left unto us deso- 








^ 


knew. 


late ? " 


1 




i \ 1 EV 












Aylmer^s Field. 



,,,gs, 



thou, O thou that killest, hadst 
thou known, 
O thou that stouest, hadst thou under- 
stood 
The things belonging to thy peace and 

Is there no prophet but the voice that 

calls 
Doom upon ki 

" Repent ' 
Is not our own child on the narrow 

Who dow'n to those that saunter in the 

broad 
Cries "Come up hither," as a prophet 

Is there no stoning save with flint 

and rock ? 
Yes, as the dead we weep for tes- 
tify- 
No desolation but by sword and 



Yes, 



and 



moannigs 

Am lonelier, darker, eartlilier for my 
Give me your prayers, for he is past 

Not past the living fount of pity in 

Heaven, 
but I that thought myself long-suffer- 
ing, meek, 
Kxceeding '' poor in spirit " — how the 

words 
Have twisted back upon themselves, 

and mean 
Vileness, we are grown so proud — I 

wish'd ray voice 
A rushinc- tempest of the wrath of 

God 
To ' blow these sacrifices thro' the 

world- 
Sent like the twelve divided concu- 



Toi 
Lighte 



lie the tribes : but there— nut 
nder— earth 

from her own central Hell — 
O there 
The red fruit of an old idolatry — 
The heads of chiefs and princes fall 

so fast, ■ 
They cling together in the ghastly 
sack — 





The land all shambles — naked mar- 
riages 

Flash from the bridge, and ever- 
murder'd France, 

By shores that darken with the gath- 
ering wolf, 

Runs in a river of blood to the sick 

Is this a time to madden madness 

then ? 
Was this a time for these to flaunt 

their pride ? 
May Phar..ul|-. Jaikness, folds as 

dcn.L' .1- i'io-,; 

Which hill lliL liolir^l from the peo- 
d this great 
ivorld must 



pie 



Ere the great death, shi 

sin from all ! 
Doubtless our narro\ 

canvass it : 

rather pray for those and pity 

them. 
Who, thro' their own desire accom- 

plish'd, bring 
Tlieir own gray hairs with sorrow to 

the grave— 
Who broke the bond which they 

desired to break. 
Which else had liuk'd their race with 

times to come — 
Who wove coarse webs to snare her 

purity, 
Grossly contriving their dear daugh- 
ter's good — 
Poor souls, and knew not what they 

IgnoraU''.l^'iMng tlieir own daugh- 

thly chastisement 

Have not our love and reverence left 

them bare ? 
Will not another take their heritage ? 
Will there be children's laughter in 

their hall 
For ever and for ever, or one stone 
Left on another, or is it a light thing 
That I, their guest, their host, their 

ancient friend, 

1 made by these the last of all my 

race. 
Must crv to these the last of theirs, as 
cried 



May 



suthc 
















f<T^ 1 i-g ? 1 1 rr 


1 








142 Ay liner's Field. 




Christ ere His agony to those that 


Stumbling across the market to his 








swore 1 


death, 


i 








e^ made 


Not by the temple but the gold, and 


Unpitied; for he groped as blind, and 


\ 










seem'd «A5 








Their (3vvn traditions God, and slew 


Always about to fall, grasping the 








the Lord, 


pews 








And left their memories a world's 


And oaken finials till he touchVI the 








curse—" Behold, 


door; 








Your house is left unto you deso- 


Yet to the Ivchgate, where his chariot 








late " ? • 


stood; 
Strode from the porch, tall and erect 








Ended he had not, but she brook'd 


again. 








Long since her heart had beat re- 


But nevermore did either pass the 








morselessly. 


gate 








Her crampt-up sorrow pain'd her, and 


Save under pall with bearers. In one 








a sense 


month, 








Of meanness in her unresisting life. 


Thro' wearv and yet ever wearier 








Then their eyes vext her; for on en- 


hours. 








tering 


The childless mother went to seek 








He had cast the curtains of their seat 


her child; 








aside- 


And when he felt the silence of his 








Black velvet of the costliest— she her- 


house 








self 


About him, and the change and not 








Had seen to that : fain had she closed 


the change. 








them now, 


And those fixt eves of painted ances- 








Vet dared not stir to do it, only 


tors 








near-d 


Staring for ever from their gilded 








Her husband inch by inch, but when 


walls 








she laid. 


On him their last descendant, his own 








Wifelike, her hand in one of his, he 


head 










Began to droop, to fall ; the man be- 








His face with the other, and at once, 


came 








as falls 


Imbecile ; his one word was 'desolate ; ' 








A creeper when the prop is broken. 


Dead for two years before his death 








fell 


was he ; 








The woman shrieking at his feet, and 


But when the second Christmas came, 








swoon'd. 


escaped 








Then her own people bore along the 


His keepers, and the silence which he 

felt. 
To find a deeper in the narrow gloom 








Her pendent hands, and narrow mea- 








gre face 


By wife and child ; nor wanted at his 








Seam'd with the shallow cares of fifty 


end 








years : 


The dark retinue reverencing death 








And her the Lord of all the landscape 


At golden thresholds ; nor from ten- 








round 


der hearts. 






Ev'n to its last horizon, and of all 


And those who sorrow'd o'er a van- 








*!* Who peer'd at him so keenly, follow'd 


ish'd race, "O? 










out 


Pity, the violet on the tyrant's grave. 
Then the great Hall was wholly 












Tall and erect, but in the middle 


■ 










aisle 


broken down, . 












Keel'd, as a footsore ox in crowded 


And the broad woodland parcell'd 








^ 


K , ', - 


into farms ; 


[ 






II 1 12 t 1 1 Ijjv 
















And where the two contrived their 
daughter's good, 

Lies the hawk's cast, the mole has 
made his run, 

The hedgehog underneath the plan- 
tain bores, 

The rabbit fondles his own harmless 
face. 

The slow-worm creeps, and the thin 
weasel there 

Follows the mouse, and all is open 
field. 



SEA DREAMS. 



A CITY clerk, 


but gently born anc 




bred ; 




Hisv 


,ife,an u. 
child- 


known artist's orphai 


One 


babe was theirs, a Margaret 




three years old : 


They 


thinking 
der eye 


that her clear german 


Droopt in the 


giant-factoried city 


Came 


, with a 


month's leave givei 



them, to the .>iea : 

For which his gains were dock'd, how- 
ever small : 

Small were his gains, and hard his 
work ; besides, 

Their slender household fortunes 
(for the man 

Had risk'd his little) like the little 
•thrift, 

Trembled in perilous places o'er a 
deep : 

And oft, when sitting all alone, his 
face 

Would darken, as he cursed his cred- 
ulousness, 

And that one unctuous mouth which 
lured him, rogue, 

To buy strange shares in some Peru- 
vian mine. 

Now seaward-bound for health they 
gain'd a coast, 

All sand and cliff and deep-inrunning 
cave, 

At close of day ; slept, woke, and 
the next, 





The Sabbath, pi. 
church, 

To chapel ; where a heated pulpiteer. 

Not preaching simple Christ to sim- 
ple men, 

Announced the coming doom, and ful- 

Against the scarlet woman and her 
creed ; 

For sideways up he swung his arms, 
and shriek'd 

' Thus, thus with violence,' ev'n as if 
he held 

The Apocalyptic millstone, and him- 
self 

Were that great Angel ; ' Thus with 
violence 

Shall Babylon be cast into the sea ; 

Then comes the close.' The gentle- 
hearted wife 

Sat shuddering at the ruin of a world ; 

He at his own : but when the wordv 
storm 

Had ended, forth they came and 
paced the shore. 

Ran in and out the long sea-framing 
caves, 

Drank the large air, and saw, but 
scarce believed 

(The sootflake of so many a summer 
still 

Clung to their fancies) that they saw, 
the sea. 

.So now on sand they walk'd, and now 
on cliff, 

Lingering about the thymy promonto- 
ries, 

Till all the sails were darken'd in the 



And rosed in the east : then home- 
ward and to bed : 

Where she, who kept a tender Chris- 
tian hope, 

Haunting a holy te.\t, and still to 
that 

Returning, as the bird returns, at 
night, 

' Let not the sun go down upon your 
wrath,' 

Said, ' Love, forgive him : ' but he did 
not speak ; 

And silenced by that silence lay the 





1 


144 Sea Dn-ams. 


1 




Remembering her dear Lord who 


Made more and more allowance for 






died for all, 


his talk ; 


. 








And musing on the little lives of men, 


Went further, fool ! and trusted him 








«As And how they mar this little by their 


with all, <A> 






feuds. 


All my poor scrapings from a dozen 
years 






liut while the two were sleeping, a 


Of dust and deskwork : there is no 






full tide 


such mine. 






Rose with ground-swell, which, on the 


None; but a gulf of ruin, swallowing 






foremost rocks 


gold. 






Touching, upjetted in spirts of wild 


Not making. Ruin'd ! ruin'd! the 






sea-smoke, 


sea roars 






And scaled in sheets of wasteful foam. 

and fell 
In vast sea-cataracts— ever and anon 


Ruin : a fearful night ! ' 






' Not fearful ; fair,' 






De;ul claps of thunder from within 


Said the good wife, 'if every star in 






the cliffs 


heaven 






HeaiJ thro' the living roar. At this 


Can make it fair : you do but hear the 






the b.ibe, 


tide. 






Tlicii Margaret cradled near them, 


Had you ill dreams ? ' 






wail'd and woke 








The mother, and the father suddenly 


' yes,' he said, ' I dream'd 






cried. 


Of such a tide swelling toward the 






' A wreck, a wreck ! ' then turn'd, and 


land. 






groaning said, 


And I from out the boundless outer 

deep 
Swept with it to the shore, and enter'd 






'Forgive! How manv will sav, 






"forgive," and find' 


one 






A sort of absolution in the sound 


Of those dark caves that run beneath 






To hate a little longer! No; the sin 


the cliffs. 


1 




That neither God nor man can well 


I thought the motion of the boundless 






forgive, 


deep 






Hypocrisy, I .saw it in hiiii at once. 


Bore thro' the cave, and I was heaved 






Is it so true that second thoughts are 


upon it 






best? 


In darkness: then I saw one lovelv 






Not first, and third, which are a riper 


star 
Larger and larger. " What a world," 






Too ripe, too late ! they come too late 


I thought, 






for use. 


" To live in ! " but in moving on I 






Ah love, there surely lives in man and 


found 






beast 


(My the landward e.xit of the cave. 






Something divine to warn them of 


Bright with the sun upon the stream 






their foes : 


beyond : 






And such a sense, when first I fronted 


And near the light a giant woman sat. 






him. 


All over earthy, like a piece of earth, 






Said, "Trust him not ;" but after, 


A picka.Ne in' her hand: then out I 






^ when I came 


^"Pt 






^ To know him more, I lost it, knew him 


Into a land all sun and blossom, trees <^ 






f 


less ; 


As high as heaven, and every bird 


1. 






1 


Fought with what seem'd my own un- 


that sings • 










'Y''^\, . , ,. 


And here the night-light flickering in 










Sat at his table; drank his costly 


my eyes 
Awoke me.' 

X 








Ty 


K, ,'- 


;j 






K 


JJ \ 1 ^ S-1 1 LLl> 














' So sweet, I lay,' said he, 
• And mused upon it, drifting up the 

In fancy, till I slept again, and pieced 
The broken vision; for I dream 'd that 

still 
The motion of the great deep bore me 

And that the woman walk'd upon the 

brink : 
I wonder'd at her strength, and ask'd 

her of it : 
"It came," she said, "by working in 

the mines:" 
O then to ask her of my shares, I 

thought; 



,sk'( 



but 






she 



shook her head. 
And then the motion of the current 

ceased, 
And there was rolling thunder; and 

we reach'd 
A mountain, like a wall of burs and 

thorns ; 
But she with her strong feet u]i the 

steep hill 
Trod out a path : I follow'd ; and at 

top 
She pointed seaward : there a fleet of 

glass. 
That seem'd a fleet of jewels under 



me. 

Sailing along before 
That not one moi 

thunder, past 
In sunshine: right 

there lay, 
Down ill the water. 



mv clc 
;ased 



fhal 



ss its track 

ong reef of 

d gold : and I was glad 

in our often-ransack'd 



at first 
think th: 

world 
Slill so much gold was left ; and then 

- fear'd 
Lest the gay navy there should 

splinter on it. 
And fearing waved my arm to warn 

them off; 




Touch'd, clink'd, and clash'd, and 

vanish'd, and I woke, 
I heard the clash so clearly. Xow I 

see 
My dream was Life ; the woman 

honest M'ork ; 
And my poor venture but a fleet of 

g'lass 
Wreck'd on a reef of visionary gold.' 

' Nay,' said the kindlv wife to com- 
fort him, 

* Vou raised your arm, you tumbled 
down and broke 

The glass with little Margaret's medi- 
cine in it ; 

And, breaking that, you made and 
broke your dream : 

A trifle makes a dream, a trifle breaks.' 

' No trifle,' groan'd the husband ; 

I met him suddenly in the street, and 

ask'd 
That which I ask'd the woman in my 

dream. 
Like her, he shook his head. " Show 

nie the books ! " 
He dodged me with a long and loose 

account. 
"The books, the books!" but he, he 

could not wait. 
Bound on a matter he of life and 

death : 
When the great Books (see Daniel 

seven and ten) 
Were open'd, I should find he meant 

me well ; 
And then began to bloat himself, and 



All over 
Tha 



th the fat affectionate 
lean. " My 
ve by 



makes th 

dearest frieml. 
Have faith, have faith ! We 1 

faith," said he ; 
" And all things work together for the 
I good 

Of those "—it makes me sick to quote 





Gript my hand hard, and with God- 

bless-you went. 
I stood like one that had received a 

blow: 
I found a hard friend in his loose 

accounts, 
A loose one in the hard grip of his 

hand, 
A curse in his God-bless-you : then my 

eyes 
Pursued him down tlie street, and far 

away. 
Among the honest shoulders of tiie 

crowd. 
Read rascal in the motions of his 

back, 
And scoundrel in the supple-sliding 

knee.' 



' Was he so bound, po 
the good wife ; 






'So 

love, 

Before you prove him, rogue, and 
proved, forgive. 

His gain is loss; for he that wrongs 
his friend 

Wrougs himself more, and ever bears 
about 

A silent court of justice in his breast. 

Himself the judge and jury, and him- 
self 

The prisoner at the bar, ever con- 
demned : 

And that drags down his life: then 
comes what comes 

Hereafter : and he meant, he said he 

Perhajis he meant, or partly meant. 



you 



veil.' 



' " With all his conscience and one 
eye askew " — 

Love, let me quote these lines, that 
you may learn 

A man is likewise counsel for him- 
self. 

Too often, in that silent court of 
yours — 

" With all his conscience and one eye 
askew. 

So false, he partly took himself for 





\\ hose pious talk, when most his 

heart was dry, 
Made wet the crafty crowsfoot round 

his eye ; 
Wlio, never naming God e.\cept for 

So never took that useful name in 

vain. 
Made Him his catspaw and the Cross 

his tool. 
And Christ the bait to trap his dupe 

and fool ; 
Nor deeds of gift, but gifts of grace 

he forged. 
And snake-like slimed his victim ere 

he gorged ; 
And oft at Bible meetings, o'er the 

rest 
Arising, did his holy oily best, 
Dropping the too rough H in Hell and 

Heaven, 
To spread the Word by which him- 
self had thriven." 
How like you this old satire .' ' 



' Nav,' she said, 
' I loathe it : he had never kindlv 

heart. 
Nor ever cared to better his own 



But will you hear my 

one 
That altogether went 
It awed me.' 



dream, for I had 



3ld it, having dr 



— But round the North, a light, 
A belt, it seem'd, of luminous vapor, 

lay, 
And ever in it a low musical note 
Swell'd up and died; and, as it 

swell'd, a ridge 
Of breaker issued from the belt, and 

still 
Grew with the growing note, and 

when the note 
Had reach'd a thunderous fulness, on 

those cliffs 





til awful light (the 
same as that 
within the belt) whereby she 



That all those lines of cliffs W( 

cliffs no more, 
Hut huge cathedral fronts of ev( 

age, 
Grave, fiorid, stern, as far as < 

could see. 
One after one : and then the gn 

ridge drew, 



ing 



the 



i"g 



lid swell 'd 



back. 
And past into the bel 

again 
Slowly to music : ever when it broke 
The statues, king or saint, or founder 

fell; 
Then from the gaps and chasms of 

ruin left 
Came men and women in dark clus- 
ters round. 
Some crvint;, 'Set them up! they 

shall not fall!' 
And others, ' Let them lie, for they 

have tall'n.' 
And still they strove and wrangled : 

and she grieved 
In her strange dream, she knew not 

why, to find 
Their wildest wailings never out of 

With that sweet note ; and ever as 

their shrieks 
Ran highest up the gamut, that great 



rnnig, 
the( 



rk'd it, on 



liroke, mixt with awful light, and 

show'd their eyes 
Glaring, and passionate looks, and 

swept away 
The men of flesh and blood, and men 

of stone. 
To the waste deeps together. 

' Then I fixt 
My wistful eyes on two fair images, 
Both crown'd with stars and high 

among the stars, — 
The Virgin Mother standing with her 

child 





High up on one of those dark min- 
ster-fronts — 

Till she began to totter, and the child 

Clung to the mother, and sent out a 
crv 

Which liiixt with little Margaret's, 
and I woke. 

And my dream awed me : — well — but 
what are dreams ? 

Yours came but from the breaking of 
a glass, 

And mine but from the crying of a 
child.' 

'Child? No!' said he, 'but this 

tide's roar, and his. 
Our Boanerges with his threats of 

doom. 
And loud-lung'd Antibabyloniarisms 
(Altho' I grant but little 'music there) 
Went both to make your dream : but 

if there were 
A music harmonizing our wild cries. 
Sphere-music such as that you 

dreani'd about. 
Why, that would make our passions 

far too like 
The discords dear to the musician. 

No- 
One shriek of hate would jar all the 

hymns of heaven : 
True Devils with no ear, they howl in 

tune 
With nothing but the Devil ! ' 

' " True " indeed ! 
One of our town, but later by an hour 
Here than ourselves, spoke with me 

on the shore ; 
While you were running down the 

sands, and made 
The dimpled flounce of the sea-furbe- 
low flap, 
Good man, to please the child. She 

brought strange news. 
Why were you silent when I spoke 

to-night? 
I had set my heart on your forgiving 

him 
Before you knew. We must forgive 

the dead.' 

' Dead ! who is dead?' 





' The man your eye pursued, 
ittle after you had parted with 
him, 
He suddenly dropt dead of heart- 
disease.' 

' Dead ? he ? of heart-disease ? what 

heart had he 
To die of ? dead ! ' 

' Ah, dearest, if there be 
A devil in man. there is an angel tuo, 
And if he did tliat wrong you .charge 



• heart. But your 
,d) has roused the 



His angel brol« 

rough vo 
(You spoke so 

child again. 
.Sleep, little birdie, sleep ! will she 

not sleep 
Without her "little birdie"? well 

then, sleep, 
And I will sing you "birdie."' 

Saying this, 

The woman half turn'd round from 
him she loved. 

Left him one hand, and reaching thro' 
the night 

Her other, found (for it was close be- 
side) 

And half-embraced the basket cradle- 
head 

With one soft arm, which, like the 
pliant bough 

That moving moves the nest and nest- 
ling, sway'd 

The cradle, while she sang this baby 
song 

What does little birdie say 
In her nest at peep of dav ? 
Let me fly, says little birdie. 
Mother, let me flv away. 
Birdie, rest a little longer, 
Till the little wings are stronger. 
So she rests a little longer, 
Then she flies away. 




What does 

In her bed ; 

Baby says, like little birdie. 

Let me rise and fly away. 



ttle baby say, 
1 peep < ' ■ " ■ 



Baby, sleep a little longer. 
Till the little limbs are stronger 
If she sleeps a little longer, 
Baby too shall fly away. 




le sleeps : I 
sleep. 
Iso sleeps- 



He can do no more 

him, dear. 
And I shall sleep the 



et us too, let all evil. 

—another sleep than 

vrong: forgive 

>under I ' 

Then the man, 
' His deeds yet live, the worst is yet 

to come. 
Yet let your sleep for this one night 

be sound: _ 
I do forgive him ! ' 

' Thanks, my love,' she said, 
'Your own will be the sweeter,' and 
they slept. 



Of pa.ssion and the first embrace had 

died 
Between them, tho' he lov'd her none 

the less, 
Yet often when the woman heard his 

foot 
Return from pacings in the field, and 

To greet him with a kiss, the master 
took 

Small notice, or austerelyj for — his 
mind 

Half buried in some weightier argu- 
ment. 

Or fancv-borne ])erhaps upon the rise 

And long roll of the He.vanietei— he 
past 

To turn and ponder those three hun- 
dred scrolls 

Left by the Teacher, whom he held 
divine. 

She bronk'd it not ; but wrathful, pet- 





Lucretius. 149 


Dreaming some rival, sought and 


For ever : that was mine, mv dream, I 


found a witch 


knew it— 


Who brew'd the philtre xvhich had 


Of and belonging to me, as the dog 
With inward yelp and restless forefoot 


power, tliey >aii,l. 


Toleadanerrani ;.,.,-.i..n l..,„,e again. 


plies • 


And this, at tnuc^, <he mingled with 


)Ii5 function of the woodland: but 


his drink, 


the next ! 


And this destroy'd him ; for the 
wicked broth 


I thought that all the blood by Sylla 


-lied 


Confused the chemic labor of the 


Came, drivins; rainlike down again on 


blood, 


e.ulh. 


And tickling the brute brain within 


And whue it dash'd the reddening 



Made havoc among those tender 
cells, and check'd 

His power to shape : he loathed him- 
self ; and once 

After a tempest woke upon a morn 

That mock'd him with returning calm. 



'Storm in the night! for thrice I 
heard the rain" 
Rushing; and once the flash of a 

thunderbolt — 
Wethom»ht I never saw so fierce a 

fork- 
Struck out the streaming mountain- 
side, and show'd 
A riotous confluence of watercourses 
Blanching and billowing in a hollow 

of it, 
Where all but yester-eve was dusty- 
dry. 

' Storm, and what dreams, ye holy 

Gods, what dreams ! 
For thrice I waken'd after dreams. 

Perchance 
We do but recollect the dreams that 



But 



art. 



>n warriors from Cadmeai 
I thought my dream wouh 
., Hetairai, curious in thei 
as those tha 



Hired animalis 

made 
The mulberry-faced Dictator's orgies 

worse 
Than aught they fable of the quiet 

Gods. 
And hands they mixt, and yell'd and 

round me drove 
In narrowing circles till I yell'd again 
Half-suffocated, and sprang up, and 



first beam of 



errible 



for it 



Just ere the waking 

seem'd 
A void was made in Nature; all her 

bonds 
Crack'd ; and I saw the flaring atom- 
streams 
-And torrents of her myriad universe. 
Ruining along the illimitable inane, 
P'ly on to clash together again, and 



mother frame of 




Was it the 
day.' 

' Then, then, from utter gloom stood 

out the breasts, 
The breasts of Helen, and hoveringly 

a sword 
Now over and now under, now 

direct, 
Pointed itself to pierce, but sank down 

shamed 
At all that beautv ; and as I stared, a 

fire. 
The fire that left a roofless Ilion, 
Shot out of them, and scorch'd me 

that I woke. 



• Is this thv vengeance, holv Venus, « 


VJ 


thine,' - 






Because I would not 


one of thine own 




doves, 






Not ev'n a rose, wer 


e offer'd to thee .' 




thine. 


., M 


-} 




' Deity ? na}', thy worshippers. My 
tongue 

Trips, or I spealc profanely. Which 
of these 

Angers thee most, or angers thee at 
all ? 

Not if thou be'st of those who, far 
aloof 

From envy, hate and pity, and spite 
and scorn. 

Live the great life which all our great- 
est fain 

Would follow, center'd in eternal calm. 

' Nay, if thou canst, O Goddess, 
like ourselves 

Touch, and be touch'd, then would I 
cry to thee 

To kiss thy Mavors, roll thy tender 
arms 

Round him, and keep him from the 
lust of blood 

That makes a steaming slaughter- 
house of Rome. 



' Ay, but I mea 
not her, 
Whom all the pi 

see 
Slide froi 



not thee ; I mea 

> of Ida shook 

that quiet heaven of hei 



The Trojan, while his neat-herds were 

abroad ; 
Nor her that o'er her wounded hunter 

wept 
Her Deity false in human-amorous 

tears; 
Nor whom her beardless apple-arbiter, 
Decided fairest. Rather, O ye Gods, 
Poet-like, as the great Sicilian called 
Calliope to grace his golden verse- 



Ay, and this Kypris also — did I take 



rhat 




of thine to shadow 



: popul.i 

forth 
The all-generating powers and genial 

heat 
Of Nature, when she strikes thro' the 

thick blood 



large, and lambs 
udder, and the 
amid the blaze 



the 



rk of 



Makes his heart voice 
of flowers : 

Which things appea 
mighty Gods. 



' The Gods I and if I go mj' work is 
left 
Unfinish'd— // I go. The Gods, who 

The lucid interspace of world and 

world. 
Where never creeps a cloud, or moves 



Nor ever falls the 



sacred everlasting calii 



uch, 



of 



Letting his own life go. The Gods, 

the Gods ! 
If all be atoms, how then should the 

Gods 
Being atomic not be dissoluble. 
Not follow the great law ? Mv master 

held 
That Gods there are, for all men so 

believe. 
I prest my footsteps into his, and 

meant 
Surely to lead my Memmius in a train 
Of flowery clauses onward to the proof 
That Gods there are, and deathless. 

Meant ? I meant? 
I have forgotten what I meant : my 



rai 



ly faculties are 



' Look where another of our Gods, 
the Sun, 
Apollo, Delius, or of older use 
All-seeing Hyperion — what you will — 
Has mounted yonder ; since he never 
sware. 




— 










''fn-i h=^ g 1 ^ — t~|T' 


>y 






Liicretiits. 151 


Except his wrath were wreak'd on 


These prodigies of myriad naked- 






wretched man, 


nesses. 


. 








That he would only shine among the 


And twisted shapes of lust, unspeak- 


\ 






Hereafter; tales! for never yet on 


Abominable, strangers at my hearth 






earth 


Not welcome, harpies miring every 






Could dead flesh creep, or bits of 


dish. 






roasting ox 


The phantom husks of something 






Moan round the spit — nor knows he 


foully done. 






what he sees ; 


And fleeting thro' the boundless uni- 






King of the East altho' he seem, and 


verse, 






girt 


And blasting the long quiet of my 






With song and flame and fragrance, 


breast 






slowly lifts 


With animal heat and dire insanity? 






His golden feet on those empurpled 








stairs 


' How should the mind, except it 






That climb into the windy halls of 


loved them, clasp 






heaven : 


These idols to herself ? or do they 






And here he glances on an eye new- 


fly 






born, 


Now thinner, and now thicker, like 






And gets for greeting but a wail of 


the flakes 






pain ; 


In a fall of snow, and so press in. per- 






And here he stays upon a freezing orb 


force 






That fain would gaze upon him to the 


Of multitude, as crowds that in an 






last; 


hour 






And here upon a yellow eyelid fall'n 


Of civic tumult jam the doors, and 






And closed by those who mourn a 


bear 






friend in vain, 


The keepers down, and throng, their 






Not thankful that his troubles are no 


rags and they 






more. 


The basest, far into that council-hall 






And me, altho' his fire is on my face 


Where sit the best and stateliest of 






Blinding, he sees not, nor at all can 

tell 
Whether I mean this day to end my- 


the land.' 






' Can I not fling this horror off me 






self, 


again. 






Or lend an ear to Plato where he 


.Seeing with how great ease Nature 






says, 
That men like soldiers may not quit 


Balmier and nobler from her bath of 






the post 


storm. 






Allotted by the Gods : but he that 


At random ravage i' and how easily 






holds 


The mountain there has cast his 






The Gods are careless, wherefore 


cloudy slough. 






need he care 


Now towering o'er him in serenest 






Greatlv for them, nor rather plunge 








at once. 


A mountain o'er a mountain,— ay, and 






Being troubled, wholly out of sight, 


within 






and sink 


All hollow as the hopes and fears of 






'V Past earthquake— ay, and gout and 


men .' •'Y' 








stone, that break 










Body toward death, and palsy, death- 


' I'.ut who was he, that in the garden ' ' 








in-life. 


snared 








And wretched age — and worst disease 


Picus and Faunus, rustic Gods.? a 






1 


of all, 


^, J 




Si is m I iijy 












To laugh at — more to laugh at in my- 
self— 

For look ! what is it ? there ? yon ar- 
butus 

Totters ; a noiseless riot underneath 

Strikes through the wood, sets all the 
tops quivering — 

The mountain quickens into Nymph 
and Faun ; 

And here an Oread — how the sun de- 
lights 

To glance and shift about her slippery 
sides, 

And rosy knees and supple rounded- 
ness, 

And budded bosom-peaks — who this 

Before the rest — A satyr, a satyr, see. 

Follows ; but liini I proved impossi- 
ble; 

Twy-natured is no nature : yet he 
draws 

Nearer and nearer, and I scan him 
now 

Beastlier than any phantom of his 
kind 

That ever butted his rough brother- 
brute 

For lust or lusty blood or provender : 

I liate, abhor, spit, sicken at him ; and 
she 

Loathes him as well; such a precipi- 
tate heel, 

Fledged as it were with Mercury's 
ankle-wing. 

Whirls her to me : but will she fling 



Catch her 



Shameless upon 

goat-foot : nay. 

Hide, hide them, million-myrtled wil- 
derness, 

And cavern-shadowing laurels, hide ! 
do T wish — 

What? — that the bush were leafless? 
or to whelm 

All of them in one massacre? O ye 
Gods, 

1 know you careless, yet, behold, to 



childly wont and ancient use 
call- 
thought I lived securely as youi 





No lewdness, narrowing envy, 

key-spite, 
No madness of ambition, avarice, 

none : 
No larger feast than under plane or 

pine 
With neighbors laid along the grass, 

to take 
Only such cups as left us friendly- 

Aliirming each his own pliilosophy — 

Nothing to mar the sober majesties 

Of settled, sweet. Epicurean life. 

But now it seems some unseen mon- 
ster lays 

His vast and filthv hands upon mv 
will, 

Wrenching it backward into his; and 
spoils 

My bliss in being ; and it was not 
great ; 

For save when shutting reasons up in 
rhythm. 

Or Heliconian honey in living words, 

To make a truth less harsh, I often 

ittle 
life. 

Or of so little in our little life- 
Poor little life that toddles half an 
hour 

Crown'd with a flower or two, and 
there an end — 

And since the nobler pleasure seems 
to fade, 

Why should I, beastlike as 1 find my- 
self. 

Not manlike end myself ?— our privi- 
lege— 

What beast has heart to cU) it ? And 
what man. 

What Roman would be dragg"d in 
triumph thus ? 

Not I ; not he, who bears one name 
with her 

Whose death-blow struck the dateless 
doom of kings. 

When, brooking not the Tarqu: 
her veins, 

She made her blood in sight of Colla- 

And all his peers, flushing the guilt- 
less air. 





Spout from the maiden fuuntain in 
her heart. 

And from it sprang the Common- 
wealth, which breaks 

As I am breaking now ! 

' And therefore now 
I,et her, that is the womb and tomb 

of all, 
flreat Xature, take, and forcing far 

apart 
Those blind beginnings that have 

made me man. 
Dash them anew together at her will 
Thro' all her cycles — into man once 

more, 
Or beast or bird or fish, or opulent 

flower : 
But till this cosmic order everywhere 
Shatter'd into one earthquake in one 

day 
Cracks all to pieces, — and that hour 

perhaps 
Is not so far when momentan,- man 
Shall seem no more a something to 

himself, 
But he, his hopes and hates, his 

homes and fanes, 
And even his bones long laid within 

the grave, 
The very sides of the grave itself 

shall pass. 
Vanishing, atom and void, atom and 

void. 
Into the unseen for ever.— till that 

hour. 
My golden work in which I told a 

truth 
That stays the rolling Ixionian wheel. 



And numbs the Furv's ring 

and ])!ucks 
The mortal soul from out 

hell. 
Shall stand : ay, surely : then it fail 

at last 
And perishes as I must ; for O Thou, 
Passionless bride, divine Tranquillitv, 
Vearn'd after bv the wisest of the 




Who fail to find thee, being 



tho 





one pain. 








Ho\ 


•belt Ik 


10W thou 




be 




mine 










Or 


soon or 


late, vet 


out 


of season. 




thus 










I woo thee 


•oughly. 


or 


hou cai 


est 




not 










Hov 


roughl 
they w 


;^.,^n ma 


y « 


oo thee 


so 


Thu 


s— thus : 


the sou 


flies out a 


nd 




dies in 


the air.' 








\\ 


ith that 


he drove 


the 


knife i 


ito 



his side : 
She heard him raging, heard him fall ; 

ran in. 
Beat breast, tore hair, cried out upon 

herself 
I As having fail'd in duty to him, 

shriek'd 
That she but meant to win him back, 

fell on him, 
Clasp'd, kiss'd him, wail'd : he an- 

swer'd, ' Care not thou ! 
Thv dutv ? What is duty? Fare thee 
■ well ! ' 



MAUD; A MONODRAMA. 

PART I. 

I. 



I HATE the dreadful hollow behind the little wood. 
Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath, 
The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent horror of blood, 
And Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers ' Death.' 





For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was found, 

is who had given me life — O father ! O God ! was it well ? — 
Mangled, and flatten'd, and crush'd, and dinted into the ground 
There vet lies the rock that fell ' 



Did he fling himself down ? who knows .' for a vast speculation had fail 
And ever he mutter'd and madden'd, and ever wann'd with despair. 
And out he walk'd when the wind like a broken worldling wail'd, 
And the flying gold of the ruin'd woodlands drove thro' the air. 



I remember the time, for the roots of my hair w 
P.y a shuffled step, by a dead weight trail'd, by : 
And my pulses closed their gates with a shock i 
The shrill-edged shriek of a mother divide the shuddering night. 



Villainy somewhere ! who.se? One says, we are villains all. 
Not he : his honest fame should at least by me be maintained : 
But that old man, now lord of the broad estate and the Hall, 
Uropt off gorged from a scheme that had left us flaccid and drain'd. 



VI. 

Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace ? we have made them a curse, 

Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own; 

.And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worse 

Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own hearthstone ? 

VII. 

Hut the.se are the davs of advance, the works of the men of mind. 
When who but a fool would have faith in a tradesman's ware or his word? 
Is it ])eace or war ? Civil war, as I think, and that of a kind 
The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the sword. 



vni. 
Sooner or later I too may passively take the print 
Of the golden age — why not ? I have neither hope nor 
May make my heart as a millstone, set my face as a flint 



Cheat and be cheated, and die : 



Peace sitting under her olive, and sUirriuR the days gone b; 

When the poor are hovell'd and hustled together, each se> 

When only the ledger lives, and when onlv not all men lie 

e in her vinevard — ves ! — but a company forges the w 






\nd the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruflian's head, 
rill the filthy by-lane rings to the yel! of the trampled wife, 
\nd chalk and alum and plaster are sold lo the poor for bread 
And the spirit of murder works in the very means of life, 




And Sleep must lie down arni'd, for the villainous centre-bits 
Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the moonless nights, 
While another is cheating the sick of a few last gasps, as he si 
To pestle a poison'd poison behind his crimson lights. 



XII. 
lother kills her babe for a burial fee, 
grins on a pile of children's bones. 
Is it peace or war ? better, war ! loud war by land and by sea, 
War with a thousand battles, and shaking a hundred thrones. 



For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder round by the hill, 
And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker out of the foam, 
That the smooth-faced snubnosed rogue would leap from his counter and till. 
And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yardwand, home. 



What ! am I raging alone as my father raged in his mood ? 
Must /too creep to the hollow and dash myself down and die 
Rather than hold by the law that I made, nevermore to brood 
On a horror of shatter'd limbs and a wretched swindler's lie ? 



Would there be sorrow for ?ne ? there was tev in the passionate shriek, 
Love for the silent thing that had made false haste to the grave — 
Wrapt in a cloak, as 1 saw him, and thought he would rise and speak 
AnA rave at the lie and the liar, ah God, as he used to rave. 



I am sick of the Hall and the hill, I am sick of the moor and the main. 
Why should I stay .' can a sweeter chance ever come to me here ? 
O, having the nerves of motion as well as the nerves of pain. 
Were it not wise if I fled from the place and the pit and the fear.' 



Workmen up at the Hall ! — they are coming; back from abroad ; 
The dark old place will be gilt by the touch" of a millionaire : 
I have heard, I know not whence, of the singular beautv of Maud; 
I play'd with the girl when a child ; she inomised theii to be fair. 






lid with her venturous climbiiig.s and tumbles and childish escapes, 
Maud the delight of the village, the ringing joy of the Hall, 
Maud with her sweet purse-mouth when my father dangled the grapes. 
Maud the beloved of my mother, the moon-taced darling ot ali, — 




What is she now ? M. 
\o, there is fatter gam. 
Thanks, for the fiend li. 
I will bury myself in in\ 



ng me a curse. 

ilone. 

an be the worse. 

) his own. 



II. 

Long have I sigh'd for a calm : (iod grant I may find it at last ! 

It will never be broken by Maud, she has neither savor nor salt. 

But a cold and clear-cut face, as I found when her carriage past. 

Perfectly beautiful : let it be granted her : where is the fault > 

All that I saw (for her eves were ilowncasl, not to be seen! 

Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null, 

Dead perfection, no more ; nothing more, if it had not been 

For a chance of travel, a paleness, an hour's defect of thfe rose, 

Or an underlip, you may call it a little too ripe, too full. 

Or the least little delicate aquiline curve in a sensitive nose. 

From which I escaped heart-free, with the least little touch of sple 



III. 



Cold and cleai c 
Breakmg a slum 
Pale vMth the _. 
Passionles-- pil. 
Womanlike til 
Done hilt in ih . 



> crnelh meek 
1 tolh was drov;n d 
dearl on the cheek 
I a gloom profound 



But 11 ,1, I , 1 I , 

Listenin. nnu to tin lul. 
Now to the sLieam nt i n 
Walkd in 1 wmtr\ wind 
The .hinmg daffodil dead 




A milliorf emeralds break from the ruby-budded lime 
In the little grove where I sit — ah, wherefore cannot I be 
Like things of the season gay, like the bountiful season bland, 
the far-off sail is blown bv the breeze of a softer clime. 




\ J 




%!li 



'THOU ART MATED WITH A CLOWN."— /he^ 79. 




he liquid azui'e bloom of a crescent of sea, 
lent sappiiire-spaiigled marriage ring of tfie land ? 



Below me, there, is the village, and looks how quiet and small ! 
And yet bubbles o'er like a city, with gossip, scandal, and spite ; 
And jack on his ale-house bench has as many lies as a Czar ; 
And here on the landward side, by a red rock, glimmers the Hall ; 
And up in the high Hall-garden I see her pass like a light ; 
Kut sorrow seize me if ever that light be my leading star ! 

III. 
When have I bow'd to her father, the wrinkled head of the race ? 
I met her to-day with her brother, but not to her brother I bow'd 
I bow'd to his lady-sister as she rode by on the moor ; 
But the fire of a foolish pride fiash'd over her beautiful face. 
O child, you wrong your beauty, believe it, in being so proud ; 
Vour father has wealth well-gotten, and I am nameless and poor. 



I keep but a man and a maid, ever ready to slander and steal ; 

I know it, and smile a hard-set smile, like a stoic, or like 

A wiser epicurean, and let the world have its way : 

For nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal; 

The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow spear'd by the shrike. 

And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey. 



We are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair in her flower ; 
Do we move ourselves, or are moved by an unseen hand at a game 
That pushes us off from the board, and others ever succeed ? 
Ah vet, we cannot be kind to each other here for an hour ; 
We'whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a brother's shame ; ^ 
tlowever we brave it out, we men are a little breed. 




; eft was of old the Lord and Master of Earth, 
For him did his high sun flame, and hi^ rhu liillnwing ran. 
And he felt himself in his force to be \ iiuic's downing race. 
.''ls nine months go to the shaping an inl.uil ripe Lt his birth. 
So many a million nf ages have gone to the making of man : 
He now is first, but is he the last ? is he not too base > 




science himself is fonder of glory, and vain. 
An eye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded and poor ; 
The passionate heart of the poet is whirl'd into folly and vice. 
' would not marvel at either, but keep a temperate brain ; 
For not to desire or admire, if a man could learn it, were more 
walk all day like the sultan of old in a garden of spice. 




iS8 



vni. 
For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by the veil. 
Who knows the ways of the world, how God will bring them about 
Our planet is one, the suns are many, the world is wide. 
•Shall I weep if a Poland fall.' shall I shriek if a Hungary fail .' 
Or an infant civilization be ruled with rod or with knout ? 
/have not made the world, and He that made it will guide. 




IX. 

Be mine a philosopher's life in the quiet woodland ways, 

Where if I cannot be gay let a passionless peace be my lot. 

Far-off from the clamor of liars belied in the hubbub of lies; 

From the long-neck'd geese of the world that are ever hissing dispraise 

Because their natures are little, and, whether he heed it or not, 

Where each man walks with his head in a cloud of poisonous files. 



And most of all would I flee from the cruel madness of love. 
The honey of poison-flowers and all the measureless ill. 
Ah Maud, you milkwhite fawn, you are all unmeet for a wife. 
Yom mother is mute in her grave as her image in marble above; 
Your father is ever in London, you wander about at your will: 
You have but fed on the roses and lain in the lilies of life. 



A voice by the cedar tree 

In the meadow under the Hall ! 

She is singing an air that is known to 

me, 
A passionate ballad gallant and gay, 
A martial song like a trumpet's call ! 
Singing alone in the morning of life. 
In the happy morning of life and of 

May, ' 
Singing of men that in battle array. 
Ready in heart and ready in hand, 
March with banner and bugle and^ 

fife 
'I'o the death, for their native land. 



Maud with her exquisite face, 

And wild voice pealing up to the sunnv 

sky, 
.\nd feet like sunny gems on an Eng- 

sh green, 
Maud in the light of her youth and her 

grace. 




Singing of Death, and of Honor that 

Till I well could weep for a time so 

sordid and mean, • 

And myself so languid and base.' 



.Silence, beautiful voice ! 

Be still, for you only trouble the mind 

With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, 

A glory I shall not find. 

Still! I will ■ 



For 



ill hear you no more, 
sweetness hardly leaves i 
a choice 
But to move to the meadow and f 

before 
Her feet on the meadow grass, a 

adore. 
Not her, who is neither courtly nor kii 
Not her, not her, but a voice. 



ng arises stormy and pale, 
1, but a wannish glare 





fold upon fold of hueless cloud, 
And the budded peaks of the wood ; 

bow'd 
Caught and cuff'd by the gale : 
I had fancied it would be fair. 



Whom but Maud should I meet 
l.a>t night, when the sunset burn'd 
I In the blossom'd gable-ends 
At the head of the'village street, 
Wliom but Maud should I meet ? 
And she touch'd my hand with a smile 

so sweet. 
She made me divine amends 
Kor a courtesy not return'd. 



And thus a delicate spark 
1 )f glowing and growing light 
Thro" the livelong hours of the dark 
Kept itself warm in the heart of my 

dreams, 
Ready to burst in a color'd flame ; 
Till at last when the morning came 
In a cloud, it faded, and seems 
Kut an ashen-gray delight. 



What if with her sunny hair, 
And smile as sunny as cold, 
She meant to weave me a snare 
Of some coquettish deceit, 
Cleopatra-like as of old 
To entangle me when we met. 
To have her linn roll in a silken 
.\nd fawn at a victor's feet. 



Ah, what shall I be at fifty 
Should Nature keep me alive. 
If I find the world so bitter 
When I am but twenty-five ? 
Vet, if she were not a cheat. 
If Maud were all that she seem'd. 
And her smile were all that I dream 'd, 
'lien the world were not so bitter 
Jut a smile could make it sweet. 





VI. 
What if the' her eye seem'd full 
Of a kind intent to me, 
What if that dandy-despot, he, 
'I'hat jewell'd mass of millinery, 
That oil'd and curl'd Assyrian Bull 
Smelling of musk and of insolence, 
Her brother, from whom I keep aloof, 
Who wants the finer politic sense 
To mask, tho' but in his own behoof. 
With aglassvsmile his brutal scorn — 
What if he had told her yestermorn 
How prettily for his own sweet sake 
A lace of tenderness might be feign'd. 
And a moist mirage in desert eyes. 
That .so, when the rotten hustings 

shake 
In another month to his brazen lies, 
A wretched vote may be gain'd. 



For a raven ever croaks, at my side. 
Keep watch and ward, keep watch 

and ward. 
Or thou wilt prove their tool. 
Yea, too, myself from myself I guard, 
For often a man's own angry pride 
Is cap and bells for a fool. 



Perhaps the smile and tender tone 
Came out of her pitying womanhood, 
For am I not, am I not, here alone 
So many a summer since she died. 
My mother, who was so gentle and 

good .' 
Living alone in an empty hou.se. 
Here half-hid in the gleaming wood. 
Where I hear the dead at midday 

-And the shrieking rush of the wainscot 

And mv own sad name in corners 



cried, 
When the shiver of dancing 

thrown 
About its echoing chambers 
Till a morbid hate and hoi 



grown 



I'hich 





O lieait of stone, are you flesh, and 

caught 
Hy that you swore to withstan ? 
For what was it else within me wrought 
Hut, I fear, the new strong wine of 

That made my tongue so stammer and 

trip 
When I saw the treasured splendor, 

her hand. 
Come sliding out of her sacred glove, 
And the sunlight broke from her lip ? 



I have play'd with her when a child ; 

She remembers it now we meet. 

Ah well, well, well, I ;«,;j be beguiled 

Bv some coquettish deceit. 

Yet, if she were not a cheat. 

If Maud were all that she seem'd. 

And her smile had all that I dream'd, 

Then the world were not so bitter 

But a smile could make it sweet. 



VII. 



Did I hear it half in a doze 
Long since, I know not where; 

Did I dream it an hour ago. 
When asleep in this arm-chair : 



Men were drinking together. 
Drinking and talking of me ; 

' Well, if it prove a girl, the boy 
Will have plenty : so let it be.' 



it an echo of something 
Read with a boy's delight, 
ig together 
abian night ? 





She came to the village church. 
And sat by a pillar alone ; 
An angel watching an urn 
Wept over her, carved in stone ; 
And once, but once, she lifted her 

And suddenly, sweetlv, strangelv 

blush'd ' 
To find they were met by my own ; 
And suddenly, sweetly, my heart beat 

stronger 
And thicker, until I heard no longer 
The snowy-banded, dilettante. 
Delicate-handed priest intone ; 
And thought, is it pride, and mused 

and sigh'd 
' No surely, now it cannot be pride.' 

IX. 

I was walking a mile. 
More than a mile from the shore. 
The sun look'd out with a smile 
Betwi.xt the cloud and the moor 
And riding at set of day 
Over the dark moor land^ 
Rapidly riding far away, 
She waved to me with her hand. 
There were two at her side. 
Something flash'd in the sun, 
Down by the hill I saw them ride. 
In a moment thev were gone ; 
Like a sudden spark 
Struck vainly in the night. 
Then returns the dark 
With no more hope of light. 



I. 
Sick, am I sick of a jealous dread .' 
Was not one of the two at her side 
This new-made lord, whose splendor 

plucks 
The slavish hat from the villagei's 

head ? 
Whose old grandfather has 

died. 
Gone to a blacker pit, for who 





(niniy nakedness dragging his trucks 
And laying his trams in a poison'd 

gloom 
\\ iout;lii, t;li he crept from a gutted 

.MastLi i>f half a servile shire, 
And kit his coal all turn'd into gold 
i'o a grandson, first of his noble line, 
Rich in the grace all women desire, 
Strong in the power that all men 

adore, 
And simper and set their voices lower. 
And sofiL-n as if to a girl, and hold 
Awe-siricken breaths at a work di- 

Seeing his gewgaw castle shine, 

There amid perky larches and pine, 
And over the sullen-purple moor 
(Look at it) pricking a cockney ear. 




This broad-brimr 
things, 

Whose ear is cramm'd 
and rings 

Even in dreams to tl 
pence, 

This huckster put down war! can he 
tell 

Whether war be a cause or a conse- 
quence ? 

Put down the |)assions that make 
earth Hell ! 

Down with ambition, avarice, pride, 

Jealousy, down ! cut off from tlie 

The bitter springs of anger and fear; 
Down too, down at your own fireside. 
With the evil tongue and the evil ear, 
For each is at war with mankind. 



What, has he found my jewel out.' 
For one of the two that rode at her 

side 
Kound for the Hall, I am sure was 

he: 
Bound for the Hall, and I think for a 

bride. 
Blithe would her brother's acceptance 

be. 
Maud could be gracious too, no doubt 
To a lord, a captain, a padded shape, 
A bought commission, a waxen face, 
A rabbit mouth that is ever agape — 
Bought .' what is it he cannot buy .' 
And therefore splenetic, personal, 

base, 
.'\. wounded thing with a rancorous 

cry. 
At war with myself and a wretched 

Sick, sick to the heart of life, am I. 



I/ast week came one to the county 

To preach our poor little army down, 
And plav the game of the despot 
kings, 
' the state has done it and thrice 




I wish I could hear again 
The chivalrous battle-song 
That she warbled alone in her joy ! 
1 might persuade myself then 
She would not do herself this great 
vrong, 



Ah God, for a man with heart, head, 

hand, 
Like some of the simple great ones 

gone 
For ever and ever by, 
One still strong man in a blatant land, 
Whatever they call him, what care I, 
Aristocrat, democrat, autocrat — one 
Who can rule and dare not lie. 



And ah for a man to arise in me. 
That the man I am may cease to be ! 



) let the solid ground 

Not fail beneath my feet 
!efore mvlife has found 





Maud. 



What some have found so swe 
Then let come what come may, 
What matter if I go mad, 
I shall have had my day. 



I nat there is one to love me; 
Then let cnnie what come may 
To a life that has been so sad, 
1 shall have had my day. 



Birds in the high Hall-garden 
When twilight was falling, 

Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, 
They were crying and calling. 

II. 

Where was Maud .' in our wood ; 

And I, who else, was with her. 
Gathering woodland lilies. 

Myriads blow together. 



rood sang 
'o' the valleys, 
, here, here 



I kiss'd her slender hand. 
She took the kiss sedately; 

Maud is not seventeen, 
But she is tall and stately. 



I to cry out on pride 

Who have won her favor 1 
O Maud were sure of Heaven 
lowliness could save her. 




her maiden posy. 




For her feet have touch'd the mea- 
.\nd left the daisies rosy. 



Birds in the high Hall-garden 



Look, a horse at the door. 

And little King Charley snarling. 

Go back, my lord, across the moor. 
You are not her darling. 



Scorn 'd, to be scorn'd by one that I 

scorn. 
Is that a matter to make me fret ? 
That a calamity hard to be borne } 
Well, he may live to hate me yet. 
Fool that I am to be ve.xt with his 

pride 1 
I past him, I was crossing his lands ; 
He stood on the path a little aside ; 
His face, as I grant, in spite of spite, 
Has a broad-blown comeliness, red 

and white. 
And six feet two, as I think, he 

stands ; 
But his essences turn'd the live air 

sick, , 

And barbarous opulence jewel-thick 
Sunn'd itself on his breast and his 

hands. 



Who shall call me ungentle, unfair, 
I long'd so heartily then and there 
To give him the grasp of fellowship 
But while I past he was humming ai 

air, 
.Stopt, and then with a riding whip 
Leisurely tapping a glossy boot. 
And curving a contumelious lip, 
Gorgonized me from head to foot 
With a stony British stare. 





Shall 



believe him ashamed to be 



For only once, in the village street, 
Last year, I caught a glimpse of hi: 

face, 
A gray old wolf and a lean. 
Scarcely, now, would I call him ; 

cheat ; 
For then, perhaps, as a child of de 



She might by a 



tru 



descent be u 
e as Maud 



And Maud is as t 
sweet : 

Tho' I fancy her sweetness only due 

To the sweeter blood by the other 
side ; 

Her mother has been a thing com- 
plete. 

However she came to be so allied. 

And fair without, faithful within, 

Maud to him is nothing akin : 

Some peculiar mystic grace 

Made her only the child of her 
mother, 

.And heap'd the whole inherited sin 

On that huge scapegoat of the race, 

All, all upon the brother. 

IV. 



Maud has a garden of roses 
And lilies fair on a lawn ; 
There she walks in her state 
And tends upon bed and bower, 
And thither I climb'd at dawn 
And stood by her garden-gate ; 
A lion ramps at the top. 
He is clapst by a passion-flower. 



Maud's own little oak-room 
(Which Maud, like a precious stone 




Set in the heart of the carven gloom. 
Lights with herself, when alone 
She sits by her music and books 
And her brother lingers late 
With a roystering company) looks 
Upon Maud's own garden-gate : 
And I thought as 1 stood, if a hand, 

as white 
.•\s ocean-foam in the moon, were laid 
On the hasp of the window, and my 

Delight 
Had a sudden desire, like a glorious 

ghost, to glide, 
Like a beam of the seventh Heaven, 

down to my side. 
There were but a step to be made. 



The fancy flatter'd my mind. 

And again seem'd overbold ; 

Now I thought that she cared for me, 

Now I thought she was kind 

Only because she was cold. 



I heard no sound where I stood 
But the rivulet on from the lawn 
Running down to my own dark wood ; 
Or the voice of the long sea-wave as 

it swell'd 
Now and then in the dim-gray dawn ; 
But I look'd, and round, all round the 

house I beheld 
The death-white curtain drawn ; 
Felt a horror over me creep. 
Prickle my skin and catch my breath, 
Knew that the death-white curtain 

meant but sleep, 
Yet I shudder'd and thought like a 

fool of the sleep of death. 



XV. 




So dark a mind withi 


1 me dwells. 


And I make m 


yself such evil 


cheer. 




That if /be dear to s 


ome one else. 


Then some one els 


may have much 


to fear J 




But if / be dear to so 


me one else. 


Then I should be 


to mvself more 


dear. 







ke care of ; 

tched meat and diink 



I ] Had given her word 



Vea ev'n of 
If I be dear, 
If I be dear to some one else 




This lump of earth has left his estate 
The lighter by the loss of his weight ; 
And so that he find what he went to 

seek, 
And fulsome Pleasure clog him, and 

drown 
His heart in the gross mud-honey of 

He may stay for a year who has gone 

for a week : 
But this is the day when I must 

speak, 
And I see my Oread coming down, 
O this is the day ! 
O beautiful creature, what am I 
That I dare to look her way; 



Think ] 






hold dominion i 



Lord of the pulse that is lord of her 

And dream of her beauty with tender 

dread. 
From the delicate Arab arch of her 

feet 
To the grace that, bright and light as 

the crest 
Of a peacock, sits on her shining 

head. 
And she knows it not : O, if she knew 

To know her beauty might half undo 

I know it the one bright thing to save 
My yet young life in the wilds of 

Time, 
Perhaps from madness, perha|)s from 

crime, 
Perhaps from a selfish grave. 



What, if she be fasten'd to this fool 

lord, 
Dare I bid her abide by her word ? 
.Should I love her so well if she 




Catch not iny breath, C 

heart, 
l^et not my tongue be a thrall 



XVII. 
Go not, happy day. 

From the shining fields. 
Go not, happy dav. 

Till the maiden vields. 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks, 

And a rose her mouth 
When the happy Yes 

Falters from her lips, 
Pass and blush the news 

Over glowiirg ships ; 
Over blowing seas. 

Over seas at rest. 
Pass the happy news. 

Plush it thro' the West ; 
Till the red man dance 

Pv his red, cedar-tree. 
And the reel man's babe 

Leap, beyond the sea. 
Blush from West to Last. 

Blush from Fast to West, 
Till the West is F.ast. 

lilush it thro' the West. 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the .South, 
Roses are her cheeks. 

And a rose her mouth. 



XVIII 



I have led her home, 

only friend. 
There is none like her. 





And never ye 

And sweetlv, oi 

Calming itself 
end, 

Full to the banks, close on the prom- 
ised good. 



the long-vvish'd-for j 




attock-harden'd 
md brought to 



None like her, none. 

Just now the dry-tongued laurels' pat- 
tering talk 

.Seem'd her light foot along the gar- 
den walk, 

And shook my heart to think she 
conies once more; 

But even then I heard her close the 
door, 

The gates of Heaven are closed, and 
she is gone. 



There is none like her, none. 

Nor will be when our summers have 

deceased. 
O, art thou sighing for Lebanon 
In the Ions; breeze that streams to thy 

delicious East, 
Sighing for Lebanon, 
Dark cedar, tho' thy limbs have here 

increased. 
Upon a pastoral slope as fair, 
And looking to the South, and fed 
With honey'd rain and delicate air. 
And haunted by the starry head 
Of her whose gentle will has changed 

my fate. 
And made my life a perfumed altar- 

And over whom thy darkness must 

have spread 
With such delight as theirs of old, thy 

great 
Forefathers of the thornless garden, 




while these long 



And you fair si 

happy day 
Go in and out as if at merry play. 
Who am no more so all forlorn, 
As when it seem'd far better to be 

born 
To labor and the 

hand, 
Than nursed at es 

understand 
A sad astrology, the boundless plan 
That makes you tyrants in your iron 

skies. 
Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes. 
Cold fires, yet with power to bum and 

brand 
His nothingness into man. 



But now shine on, and what care I, 
Who in this stormy gulf have found a 

The countercharm of space and hol- 
low sky, 

And do accept my madness, and 
would die 

To save from some slight shame one 
simple girl. 



Would die ; for sullen-seeming Death 

may give 
More life to l,ove than is or ever was 
In our low world, where vet 'tis sweet 

to live. 
Let no one ask me how it came to 

pass; 
It seems that I am happy, that to me 
A livelier emerald twinkles in the 

grass, 
A purer sapphire melts into the sea. 



Not die ; but live a life of truest 
breath, 

And teach true life to fight with mor- 
tal wrongs. 

O, why should Love, like n 
drinking-songs, 

.Spice his fair banquet with the du 
of death ? 





Maud. 



Maud my bliss, 
Maud made my Maud by that long 

loving kiss, 
Life of my life, wilt thou not answer 

this ? 
' The dusky strand of Death inwoven 

here 
With dear Love's tie, makes Love 

himself more dear.' 



Is that enchanted moan only the 

swell 
Of the long waves that roll in yonder 

bay ? 
And hark the clock within, the silver 

knell 
Of twelve sweet hours that [last in 

bridal white, 
And died to live, long as my pulses 

play; 
But now by this my love has closed 

her sight 
And given false death her hand, and 

stol'n away 
To dreamful wastes where footless 

fancies dwell 
Among the fragments of the golden 

day. 
May nothing there her maiden grace 

affright ! 
Dear heart, I feel with thee the 

drowsy spell. 
My bride to be, my evermore de- 
light. 
My own heart's heart, my ownest 

own, farewell ; 
It is but for a little space I go : 
And ye meanwhile far over moor and 

fell 
Beat to the noiseless music of the 

night ! 
Has our whole earth gone nearer to 

the glow ■ 
Of your soft splendors that you look 

so bright ? 
/ have climb'd nearer out of lonely 

Hell. 
Beat, happy stars, timing with things 

below. 
Beat with my heart more blest than 
heart can tell, 




Blest, but for so 

woe 
That seems to draw — 1 

be so : 

Let all be well, be well 

XIX. 




Her brother is coming back to-night, 
Breaking up my dream of delight. 



My dream .= do I dream of bliss ? 
I have walk'd awake with Truth. 
O when did a morning shine 
So rich in atonement as this 
For my dark-dawning youth, 
Darken'd watching a mother decline 
And that dead man at her heart and 

mine : 
For who was left to watch her but I .' 
Yet so did I let my freshness die. 



I trust that I did not talk 

To gentle Maud in our walk 

(For often in lonely wanderings 

I have cursed him even to lifeless 

things) 
But I trust that I did not talk, 
Not touch on her father's sin : 
I am sure I did but speak 
Of my mother's faded cheek 
When it slowly grew .so thin. 
That I felt she was slowly dying 
Vext with lawyers and harass'd with 

debt : 
For how often I caught her with eyes 

all wet, 
Shaking her head at her son and sigh- 
ing 
A world of trouble within! 



And Maud too, Maud was moved 
To speak of the mother she loved 
As one scarce less forlorn, 
Dying abroad and it seems apart 
From him who had ceased to share 





Ami ever mourning over the feud, 
I'he household Fury sprinkled with 

blood 
lly which our houses are torn : 
How strange was what she said, 
When only Maud and the brother 
[Tung over her dying bed — 
That Maud's dark father and mine 
Had bound us one to the other, 
Betrothed us over their wine, 
On the day when Maud was born ; 
Seal'd her mine from her first sweet 

breath. 
Mine, mine by a right, from birth till 

death. 
Mine, mine — our fathers have sworn. 



But the true blood spilt had in it a 

heat 
To dissolve the precious seal on a 

bond, 
That, if left uncancell'd, had been so 

And none of us thought of a some- 
thing beyond, 
A desire that awoke in the heart of 

the child. 
As it were a duty done to the tomb. 
To be friends for her sake, to be 

reconciled ; 
And I was cursing them and my doom, 
And letting a dangerous thought run 

wild 
While often abroad in the fragrant 

gloom 
Of foreign churches — I see her there. 
Bright English lily, breathing a prayer 
To be friends, to be reconciled ! 



But then what a flint is he ! 
Abroad, at Florence, at Rome, 
I find whenever she touch'd on me 
This brother had laugh'd her down. 
And at last, when each came home, 
He had darken'd into a frown. 
Chid her, and forbid her to speak 
To me, her friend of the years before ; 
And this was what had redden'd her 

cheek 
When I bow'd to her on the moor. 





vn. 
Vet Maud, altho' not blind 
To the faults of his heart and mind, 
I see she cannot but love him, 
And says he is rough but kind, 
And wishes me to approve him. 
And tells me, when she lay 
.Sick once, with a fear of worse. 
That he left his wine and horses and 

play, 
Sat with her, read to her, night and 

day, 
And tended her like a nurse. 



Kind .' l)ut tlie deathbed desire 
Spurn'cl by this heir of the liar — 
Rough but kind ? yet I know 
He has plotted against me in this. 
That he plots against me still. 
Kind to Maud .' that weie not amiss. 
Well, rough but kind ; why let it be 



For shall not Maud hav 



For, Maud, so tender and true, 

As long as my life endures 

I feel I shall owe you a debt, 

That I never can hope to pay ; 

And if ever I should forget 

That I owe this debt to you 

And for your sweet sake to yours ; 

O then, what then shall I say > — 

If ever I should forget, 

May God make me more wretched 

Than e\er I have been yet ! 



.So now I have sworn to bury 

All this dead body of hate, 

I feel so free and so clear 

By the loss of that dead weight, 

That I should grow light-headed, I 

Fantastically merry ; 

But that her brother comes, like a 
blight 

On my fresh hope, to the Hal! to- 
night. 





Strange, that I felt so gay, 
Strange, that / tried to-day 
To beguile her melancholy ; 
The Sultan, as we name him, — 
She did not wish to blame him — 
Hut he vext her and perplext her 
With his worldly talk and folly : 
Was it gentle to reprove her 
For stealing out of view 
From a little lazy lover 
Who but claims her as his due ? 
Or for chilling his caresses 
By the coldness of her manners. 
Nay, the plainness of her dresses ? 
Now I know her but in two, 
Nor can pronounce upon it 
If one should ask me whether 
The habit, hat, and feather. 
Or the frock and gipsy boimet 
Be the neater and completer ; 
For nothing can be sweeter 
Than maiden Maud in either. 



But to-morrow, if we live. 
Our ponderous squire will give 
A grand political dinner 
To half the squirelings near ; 
And Maud will wear her jewels, 
And the bird of prey will hover. 
And the titmouse hope to win her 
With his chirrup at her ear. 



A grand political dinner 

To the men of many acres, 

A gathering of the Tory, 

A dinner and then a dance 

For the maids and marriage-makers. 

And every eye but mine will glance 

At Maud in all her glory. 



For I am not invited. 

But, with the Sultan's pardon, 

all as well delighted. 
For I know her own rose-garden 
And mean to linger in it 




Till the 
And th< 
For a n 




iiayu t(. Iiis own ilarling, 
Maud in all hei splendor. 



XXI. 

Rivulet crossing my ground. 

And bringing me down from the Hall 

This garden-rose that I found. 

Forgetful of Maud and me. 

And lost in trouble and moving round 

Here at the head of a tinkling fall. 

And trying to pass to the sea ; 

O Rivulet, born at the Hall, 

My .Maud has sen! it by thee 

(If I read Ium sy,'c./t will litjht) 

On a blushin.j nii--ion to me. 



Saying in odor and c r, • 

Among the roses to-night.' 



Ah, 



Come into the garden, Maud, 

For the black bat, night, has flown. 

Come into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at the gate alone ; 

And the woodbine spices are wafted 
abroad, 
And the musk of the rose is blown. 



F"or a breeze of morning moves. 
And the planet of l.ove is on high 

Beginning to faint in the light tha 
she loves 
On a bed of daffodil skv. 

To faint in the light of the sun sh' 



lov 



To( 



his light, and to di( 



All night lu.yr lliu r, 

The flute, viuli,,, 1. 

All night has the ca.' 

To the dancers da 





fell with the waking 
th the setting moon. 



I said to the lily. ■ There is but one 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 
When will the dancers leave her 
alone ? 
She is weary o£ dance and play.' 
Now half to the setting moon are 
gone, 
And half to the rising day ; 
Low on the sand and loud on the 

The last wheel echoes away. 



the rose, ' The brief night 



In babble and revel and wine. 
O yonng lord-lover, what sighs 



And the sonl of the rose went into my 
blood. 
As the music clash'd in the hall. 
And long by the garden lake I stood, 

For I heard your rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow and on 
to the wood. 
Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 



From .the meadow your walks have 
left so sweet 

That whenever a March-wind sighs 
He sets the jewel-print of your feet 

In violets blue as your eyes. 
To the woody hollows in which we 




\nd the ■ 



The slender acac 



of Paradi; 




lake 
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 
But the rose was awake all night for 
your sake. 
Knowing your promise to mt ; 
The lilies and roses were all awake, 
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. 



Queen rose of the rosebud garden of 
girls. 
Come hither, the dances are done, 
In gloss of satin and glimmer of 
pearls. 
Queen lily and rose in one ; 
Shine out, little head, sunning over 
with curls. 
To the flowers, and be their sun. 



There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 

She is coming, my dove, my dear ; 
She is coming, my life, my fate ; 

The red rose cries, * .She is near, she 
is near ; ' 
And the white rose weeps, ' She is 



The larkspur listens, ' 
And the lily whisper: 



hear ; ' 



She is coming, my own, my sweet ; 

Were it ever so airy a tread. 
My heart would hear her and beat, 

Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
My dust would hear her and beat. 

Had I lain for a century dead ; 
Would start and tremble under her 
feet. 

And blossom in purple and red. 



PART II 



' The fault was mine, the fault 





Why am I sitting here so stunn'd and 

still, 
Plucking the harmless wild-flower on 

the hill ?— 
It is this guilty hand ! — 
And there rises ever a passionate cry 
From underneath in the darkening 

land — 
What is it, that has been done? 
O dawn o£ Eden bright over earth and 

sky. 
The fires of Hell brake out of thy 

rising sun. 
The fires of Hell and of Hate ; 
For she, sweet soul, had hardly spoken 

When her brother ran in his rage to 

the gate, 
He came with the babe-faced lord ; 
Heap'd on her terms of disgrace, 
And while she wept, and I strove to 

be cool, 
He fiercely gave me the lie, 
Till I with as fierce an anger spoke. 
And he struck me, madman, over the 

face, 
Struck me before the languid fool. 
Who was gaping and grinning by: 
Struck for himself an evil stroke ; 
Wrought for his house an irredeema- 
ble woe ; 
For front to front in an hour we 

stood, 
And a million horrible bellowing 

echoes broke 
From the red-ribb'd hollow behind the 

wood. 
And thunder'd up into Heaven the 

Christless code. 
That must have life for a blow. 
Ever and ever afresh they seem'd to 

grow. 
Was it he lay there with a fading eye ? 
' The fault was mine,' he whisper'd, 

'fly!' 
Then glided out of the joyous wood 
The ghastly Wraith of one that I 

knoW ; 
And there rang on a sudden a pas- 
cry, 
A cry for a brother's blood : 
It will ring in my heart and my ears, 

till I die, till I die. 





Is it gone ? my pulses beat — 

What was it } a lying trick of the 

brain .' 
Yet I thought I saw her stand, 
A shadow thereat my feet. 
High over the shadowy land. 
It is gone ; and the heavens fall in a 

gentle rain. 
When they should burst and drown 

with deluging storms 
The feeble vassals of wine and anger 

and lust. 
The little hearts that know not how to 

forgive : 
Arise, my God, and strike, for we hold 

Thee just. 
Strike dead the whole weak race of 

venomous worms. 
That sting each other here in the 

dust ; 
We are not worthy to live. 



See what a lovely shell, 
Small and pure as a pearl. 
Lying close to my foot. 
Frail, but a work divine. 
Made so fairilv well 
With delicatespire and whorl. 
How exquisitely minute, 
A miracle of design ! 



What is it .' a learned man 
Could give it a clum.sy name. 
Let him name it who can. 
The beauty would be the same. 



The tiny cell is forlorn, 
Void of' the little living will 
That made it stir on the shore. 
Did he stand at the diamond door 
Of his house in a rainbow frill ? 
Did he push, when he was uncurl'd, 
A golden foot or a fairv horn 
Thro' his dim water-world ? 





Slight, to be crush'd with a tap 
Of my finger-nail on the sand, 
Small, but a work divine. 
Frail, but of force to withstand, 
Year upon year, the shock 
(Jf cataract seas that snap 
The ihree decker's oaken spine 
Athwart the ledges of rock. 
Here on the Breton strand I 



Breton, not Briton ; here 
Like a shipwreck'd man on a coast 
Of ancient fable and fear- 
Plagued with a flitting to and fro, 
A disease, a hard mechanic ghost 
That never came from on high 
Nor ever arose from below, 
But only moves with the moving eye, 
Flyint; along the land and the main — 
\Vhy"should it look like Maud? 
Am I to be overawed 
By what I cannot but know 
Is a juggle born of the brain ? 



Back from the Breton coast, 

Sick of a nameless fear. 

Back to the dark sea-line 

Looking, thinking of all I have lost; 

An old song vexes my ear ; 

But that of Lamech is mine. 



F'or years, a measureless ill. 
For years, for ever, to part — 
But she, she would love me still ; 
And as long, O God, as she 
Have a grain of love for me. 
So long, no doubt, no doubt, 
Shall 1 nurse in my dark heart. 
However weary, a spark of will 
Not to be trampled out. 

VIII. 

Strange, that the mind, when fraught 
With a passion so intense 
One would think that it well 
Might drown all life in the eye, — 





That it should, by being so over- 
wrought. 
Suddenly strike on a sharper : 
For a shell, or a fiower, little things 
Which else would have been past by ! 
And now I remember, 1, 
When he lay dying there, 
I noticed one of his many rings 
(For he had many, poor worm) and 

thought 
It is his mother's hair. 

IX. 

Who knows if he be dead.' 

Whether I need have fied? 

Am I guilty of blood? 

However this may be, 

Comfort her, comfort her, all things 

good, 
While I am over the sea ! 
Let me and my passionate love go 

by. 
But speak to her all things holv and 

high. 
Whatever happen to me ! 
Me and my harmful love go by ; 
But come to her waking, find her 

asleep. 
Powers of the height, Powers of the 

deep, 
And comfort her tho' I die. 



Courage, poor heart of stone ! 
I will not ask thee why 
Thou canst not understand 
That thou art left for ever alo 
Courage, poor stu))id heart of < 
Or if 1 ask thee why. 
Care not thou to reply : 
She IS but dead, and the tim 

hand 
When thou shalt more than d: 



O that "twere possible 
After long grief and pain 
To find the arms of mv ti 
Round me once aijain'! 





Wlien I was wont to meet her 
In the silent woody places 
liy the home that gave me birth, 
We stood tranced in long embraces 
Mixt with kisses sweeter sweeter 
Than anything on earth. 



A shadow flits before me, 

Not thou, but like to thee : 

Ah Christ, that it were possible 

For one short hour to see 

The souls we loved, that they might 

tell us 
What and where they be. 



It leads me forth at evening. 

It lightly winds and steals 

In a cold white robe liefore me. 

When all my spirit reels 

At the shouts, the leagues of lights, 

And the roaring of the wheels. 



Half the night I waste in sighs, 
Half in dreams I sorrow after 
The delight of early skies; 
In a wakeful doze I sorrow 
For the hand, the lips, the eyes. 
For the meeting of the morrow. 
The delight of happy laughter. 
The delight of low replies. 



VI. 

'Tis a morning pure and sweet, 
And a dewy splendor falls 
On the little flower that clings 
To the turrets and the walls ; 
'Tis a morning pure and sweet. 
And the light and shadow fleet ; 
She is walking iu the meadow. 
And the woodland echo rings ; 

moment we shall meet ; 
-Slie is singing in the meadow 
And the rivulet at her feet 
Ripples on in light and shadow 
To the ballad that she sings. 





VII. 

Do I hear her sing as of old, 
My bird with the shining head. 
My own dove with the tender eye ? 
But there rings on a sudden passion- 
ate cry. 
There is some one dying or dead. 
And a sullen thunder is roll'd ; 
For a tumult shakes the city, 
And 1 wake, my dream is fled ; 
In the shuddering dawn, behold. 
Without knowledge, without pity, 
By the curtains of my bed 
That abiding phantom cold. 



Get thee hence, nor tome again. 
Mix not memory with doubt, 
Pass, thou deathlike type of pain. 
Pass and cense to move about ! 
'Tis the blot upon the brain 
That -£■/// show itself without. 



Then I rise, the eavedrops fall, 
And the yellow vapors choke 
The great city sounding wide ; 
The day comes, a dull red ball 
Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke 
On the misty river-tide. 



Thro" the hubbub of the market 
I steal, a wasted frame. 
It crosses here, it crosses there. 
Thro' all that crowd confused and 

loud. 
The shadow still the same; 
And on my heavy eyelids 
My anguish hangs like shame. 



Alas for her that met me, 

That heard me softly call. 

Came glimmering thro' the laurel: 

At the quiet evenfall, 

In the garden by the turrets 

Of the old manorial hall. 





Would the happy spirit descend, 
(•'rom the realms of light and song, 
111 the chamber or the street, 
As she looks among the blest. 
Should 1 fear to greet my friend 
Or to say ' Forgive the wrong,' 
< )r to ask her, ' Take me, sweet. 
To the regions of thy rest ' ? 



Kut the broad light glares and beats. 
And the shadow flits and fleets 
And will not let nie be; 
And I loathe the squares and streets. 
And the faces that one meets. 
Hearts with no love for me : 
Always I long to creep 
Into some still cavern deep. 
There to weep, and weep, and weep 
My whole soul out to thee. 



Dead, long dead. 

Long dead 1 

And mv heart is a handful of dust, 

And the wheels go over my head, 

And my bones are shaken with pain. 

For into a shallow grave they are 

thrust. 
Only a yard beneath the street. 
And the hoofs of the horses beat, beat, 
The hoofs of the horses beat, 
Beat into my scalp and my brain, 
With never an end to the stream of 

passing feet. 
Driving, hurrying, marrying, burying 
Clamor and rumble, and ringing and 

clatter, 
And here beneath it is all as bad, 
For I thought the dead had peace, 

but it is not so ; 
To have no peace in the grave, is that 

not sad .' 

and to and fro, 
Ever about me the dead men go ; 
And then to hear a dead man chatter 
Is enough to drive one mad. 





Wretchedest age, since Time bega 

They cannot even bury : 

And tho' we paid our tithes in the 

days that are gone. 
Not a bell was rung, not a prayer was 

read ; 
It is that which makes us loud in the 

world of the dead ; 
There is none that does his work, not 



A 


touch of their office 


might have 




sufficed, 




liu 


the churchmen fani 
their church. 


would kill 


As 


the churches have 
Christ. 


kiU'd their 



See, there is one of us sobbing. 

No limit to his distress ; 

And another, a lord of all things, pray- 
ing 

To his own great self, as I guess ; 

And another, a statesman there, be- 
traying 

His party-secret, fool, to the press ; 

And yonder a vile physician, blabbing 

The case of his patient — all for what? 

To tickle the maggot born in an 
empty head, 

And wheedle a world that loves him 
not. 

For it is but a world of the dead. 



IV. 

Nothing but idiot gabble ! 

?"or the prophecy given of old 

And then not understood, 

Has come to pass as foretold ; 

Not let any man think for the public 

good. 
But babble, merely for babble. 
For I never whisp'er'd a private affair 
Within the hearing of cat or mouse. 
No, not to myself in the closet alone. 
But I heard it shouted at once from 

the top of the house ; 
Kvervthing came to be known. 
Who' toldV/Zw we were there ? 





Not that gray old wolf, for he came 

not back 
From the wilderness, full of wolves, 

where he used to lie ; 
He has gather'd the bones for his 

o'ergrown whelp to crack ; 
Crack them now for yourself, and 

howl, and die. 



I know not whether he came in the 

Hanover ship, 
But I know that he lies and listens 

mute 
In an ancient mansion's crannies and 

holes : 
Arsenic, arsenic, sure, would do it, 
Except that now we poison our babes, 

poor souls ! 
It is all used up for that. 



Tell him now : she is standing here at 

my head ; 
Not beautiful now, not even kind; 
He may take her now ; for she never 

speaks her mind. 
But is ever the one thing silent here. 
She is not of as, as I divine ; 
She comes from another stiller world 

of the dead, 
Stiller, not fairer than mine. 



But I know where a garden grows. 
Fairer than aught in the world be- 
side. 
All made up of the lily and rose 
That blow by night, when the season 

is good, 
To the sound of dancing music and 

flutes: 
It is only flowers, they had no fruits. 





full of 



And I almost fear they are 
but blood ; 

For the keeper was one, s 
pride. 

He linkt a dead man there to a spec- 
tral bride ; 

For he, if he had not been a Sultan of 
brutes. 

Would he have that hole in his fide .' 



But what will the old man say.' 

He laid a cruel snare in a pit 

To catch a friend of mine one stormy 

day; 
Yet now I could even weep to think 

of it ; 
For what will the old man say 
When he comes to the second corpse 

in the pit i" 



Friend, to be struck by the public 

foe. 
Then to strike him and lay him low. 
That were a public merit, far. 
Whatever the Quaker holds, from 



But the red life spilt 

blow— 
I swear to you, lawful 

Are scarcely even akin. 



for a private 
and lawless 



me, why have they not buried me 

deep enough .' 
Is it kind to have made me a grave so 

rough. 
Me, that was never a quiet sleeper ? 
Maybe still I am but half-dead; 
Then I cannot be wholly dumb; 

1 will crv to the steps above my head 
And somebody, surely, some kind 

heart will come ' 
To bury me, bury me 
Deeper, ever so little deeper. 





PART 
VI 




My life has crept so long on a broken wing 

Thro' cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear, 

That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing : 

My mood is changed, for it fell at a time of year 

When the face of night is fair on the dewy downs, 

And the shining daffodil dies, and the Charioteer 

And starry Gemnii hang like glorious crowns 

Over Orion's grave low down in the west, 

That like a silent lightning under the stars 

She seem'd to divide in a dream from a band of the blest, 

And spoke of a hope for the world in the coming wars — 

'And in that hope, dear soul, let trouble have rest. 

Knowing I tarry for thee,' and pointed to Mars 

As he glow'd like a ruddy shield on the Lion's breast. 



And it was but a dream, yet it yielded a dear delight 

To have look'd, tho' but in a dieam, upon eyes so fair. 

That had been in a weary world my one thing bright; 

And it was but a dream, yet it lighten'd my despair 

When I thought that a war would arise in defence of the right, 

That an iron tyranny now should bend or cease. 

The glory of manhood stand on his ancient height. 

Nor Britain's one sole God be the millionaire; 

No more shall commerce be all in all, and Peace 

Pipe on her pastoral hillock a languid note. 

And watch her harvest ripen, her herd increase. 

Nor the cannon-bullet rust on a slothful shore, 

And the cobweb woven across the cannon's throat 

Shall shake its threaded tears in the wind no more. 




And as months ran on and rumor of battle grew, 

' It is time, it is time, O passionate heart,' said I 

(For I cleaved to a cause that I felt to be pure and true); 

' It is time, O passionate heart and morbid eye. 

That old hysterical mock-disease should die.' 

And I stood on a giant deck and mix'd my breath 

With a loyal people shouting a battle cry. 

Till I saw the dreary phantom arise and fly 

Far into the North, and battle, and seas of death. 



ly, so I wake to the higher aims 
has lost for a little her hist of gold, 





The First Quarrel. 




And love of a peace that was full of wrongs and shames, 

Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to be told ; 

And hail once more to the banner of battle unroU'd '. 

Tho' many a light shall darken, and many shall v/eep 

For those that are crush'd in the clash of jarring claims. 

Vet God's just wrath shall be wreaU'd on a giant liar ; 

And many a darkness into the light shall leap, 

And shine in the sudden making of splendid names. 

And noble thought be freer under the sun, 

And the heart of a people beat with one desire ; 

For the peace, that I deem'd no peace, is over and done, 

And now by the side of the lllack and the Baltic deep, 

And deathful -grinning mouths of the fortress, flames 

The blood-red blossom of war with a heart of fire. 

V. 

Let it flame or fade, and the war roll down like a wind. 
We have proved we have hearts in a cause, we are noble still, 
And myself have awaked, as it seems, to the better mind; 
It is better to fight for the good than to rail at the ill ; 
I have felt with my native land, I am one with my kind, 
1 embrace the purpose of God. and the doom assign'd. 



THE FHiST QUARREL. 

(in the isle of wight.) 

I. 

' Wait a little,' you say, ' you are sure 

it '11 all come right,' 
But the boy was 'uorn i' trouble, an' 

looks so wan an' so white : 
Wait I an' once I ha' waited — I hadn't 

to wait for long. 
Now I wait, wait, wait for Harry. — 

No. no, you are doing me wTong ! 
Harry and I were married : the boy 

can hold u]) his head. 
The boy was born in wedlock, but 

after my man was dead ; 
I ha' work'd for him fifteen years, an' 

I work an' I wait to the end. 
I am all alone in the world, an' you 

are my only friend. 




When Harry an' I were children, he 

call'd me his own little wife ; 
I was hap])y when I was with him, an' 

sorry when he was away. 
An' when we play'd together, I loved 

him better than play ; 
He workt me the d.iisy chain — he 

made me the cowslip ball. 
He fought the boys that were rude, an' 

I loved him better than all. 
Passionate girl tho' I was, an' often at 

home in disgrace, 
I never could quarrel with Harry — I 

had but to look in his face. 



There was a farmer in Dorset of 
Harry's kin, that had need 

Of a good stout lad at his farm ; he 
sent, an' the father agreed ; 

So Harry was bound to the Dorset- 
shire farm for years an' fur 

I walked with him down to the quay, 
poor lad. an' we parted 





boat was beginning to move, we 
heard them a-ringing the bell, 

never love any but you, God bless 
you, my own little Nell.' 



I was a child, an' he was a child, an' 

he came to harm ; 
There was a girl, a hussy, that workt 

with him up at the farm. 
One had deceived her an' left her 

alone with her sin an' her shame. 
And so she was wicked with Harry ; 

the girl was the most to blame. 



And 
Thei 



[ that 

ill, 



Xelly-,- th^ 



maids, 'Our 
.1 Vm all' 
I didn't take hLcil u' /''.■< i/i. hut I taught 

myself all 1 could 
To make a good wife for Harry, when 
Harry came home for good. 



Often I seem'd unhappy, and often as 

happy too, 
For I heard it abroad in the fields ' I'll 

' I'll never love any but you ' the 
morning song of the lark, 

' I'll never love any but you ' the night- 
ingale's hymn in the dark. 



.And Harry came home at last, but he 

look'd at me sidelong and shy, 
Vext nie a bit, till he told me that s'o 

many years had gone by. 
I had grown so handsome and tall — 

that I might ha' forgot him 

somehow — 
For he thought — there were other lads 

— he was fear'd to look at me 





Married among the red berries, an 

as merry as May — 
Those were the pleasant times, 

house an' my man were 

pride, 
We seem'd like ships i' the Chai 

a-sailing with wind an' tide. 



But work was scant in the Isle, tho' 

he tried the villages round. 
So Harry went over the Solent to see 

if work could be found ; 
An' he wrote ' I ha' six weeks' work, 

little wife, so far as I know ; 
I'll come for an hour to-morrow, an' 

kiss you before I go.' 



So I set to righting the house, for 
wasn't he coming (hat day ? 

An' I hit on an old deal-box that was 
push'd in a corner away. 

It was full of old odds an' ends, an' a 
letter along wi' the rest, 

I had better ha' put my naked hand 



' Sweetheart ' — this was the letter — 

this was the letter I read — 
' You promised to find me work near 

you, an' I wish I was dead — 
Didn't you kiss me an' promise .' you 

haven't done it my lad. 
An' I almost died o' your cjoing awav, 

an' I wish that I had.' 



I too wish that I had — in the pleasan 

times that had past, 
Before I quarrel 'd with Harry — m 

quarrel — the first an' the last. 



For Harry came in, an" I flung hii 
the letter that drove me wild. 

An' he told it me all at once, 
pie as any child. 





Rizpah. 



' What can it matter, my lass, what I 

did wi' my single life ? 
I ha' been as true to you as ever a 

man to his wife ; 
An' s/ie- wasn't one o' the worst. 

' Then,' I said, ' I'm none o' the 

best.' 
An' he smiled at me, ' Ain't you, my 

love ? Come, come, little wife, 

let it rest ! 
The man isn't like the woman, no 

need to make such a stir.' 
But he anger'd me all the more, an' I 

said ' You were keeping with 

her, 
When I was a-loving you all along an' 

the same as before.' 
An' he didn't speak for a while, an' he 

anger'd me mure and more. 
Then he patted my hand in his gentle 

way, ' Let bygones be ! ' 
' Bygones'! you kept yours hush'd,' I 

said, ' when you married me ! 
By-gones ma' be come-agains ; an' s/ie 

— in her shame an' her sin — • 
You'll have her to nurse my child, if I 

die o' my lying in ! 
You'll make her its second mother ! 

I hate her — an' I hate you ! ' 
Ah, Harry, my man, you had better 

ha' beaten me black an' 

blue 
Than ha' spoken as kind as you did, 

when I were so crazy wi' 

spite, 
' Wait a little, my lass, I am sure it 'ill 

all come right.' 



XIV. 
An' he took three turns in the rain, 

an' I watch'd him, an' when he 

came in 
I felt that my heart was hard, he was 

all wet thro' to the skin. 
An' I never said ' off wi' the wet,' I 

never said ' on wi' the drv,' 
-So I knew my heart was hardi when 

he came to bid me goodbve. 
' You said that you hated me, Ellen, 

but that isn't true, you know; 
I am going to leave you a bit— you'll 

kiss me before I go ? ' 





le wi' the boy, 1 

must ha' been light i' mv 

head— 
' I had sooner be cursed than kiss'd I ' 

— I didn't know well what I 

meant. 
But I turn'd my face from Aim, an' he 

turn'd Ais face an' he went. 

XVI. 
And then he sent me a letter, ' I've 

gotten my work to do ; 
You wouldn't kiss me, my lass, an' I 

never loved any but you ; 
I am sorry for all the quarrel an' sorry 

for what she wrote, 
I ha' six weeks' work in Jersey an' go 

to-night by the boat.' 

XVII. 

An' the wind began to rise, an' I 

thought of him out at sea, 
An' I felt I had been to blame ; he 

was always kind to me. 
' Wait a little, my la.ss, I am sure it 'ill 

all come right' — 
An' the boat went down that night — 

the boat went down that night. 



mg, the wmd 
nd, 'O 



I. 
Wailing, wailing, 

over land and sea- 
And Willy's voice in tl; 

mother, come out to me.' 
Why should he call me to-night, whei 

he knows that I cannot go ? 
For the downs are as bright as day 

and the full moon stares at tin 

snow. 



We should be 

would spy us 





Rizpah. 



The loud black nights for us, and the 

storm rushing over the down, 
When I cannot see my own hand, but 

am led by the creak of the 

chain. 
And grovel and grope for my son till 

I find myself drenched with the 

rain. 



Anything fallen again ? nay— what 

was there left to fall ? 
I have taken them home, I have num- 

ber'd the bones, I have hidden 

them all. 
What am I saving ? and what are 






do' 



spy : 



IV. 

Who let her in ? how long has she 

been ? you — what have you 

heard 1 
Why did you sit so quiet ? you never 

have spoken a word. 
O — to pray with me — yes — a lady — 

none of their spies — 
But the night has crept into my heart, 

and begun to darken my eyes. 



Ah — you, that have lived so soft, what 

shor' \ you know of the night, 
The blast and the burning shame and 

the bitter frost and the fright '>. 
I have done it, while you were asleep 

— you were only made for the 

day. 
I have gather'd my baby together — 

and now you may go your way. 



Nay — for it's kind of you. Madam, to 

sit by an old dying wife. 
Kut say nothing hard of my boy, I 

have only an hour of life. 
I kiss'd my boy in the prison, before 

he went out to die. 
' They dared me to do it,' he said, and 

he never has told me a lie. 




I whipt him for robbing an orchard 

once when he was but a child — 
• The farmer dared me to do it,' he 

said I he was always so wild — 
And idle — and couldn't be idle — my 

Willy, he never could rest. 
The King should have inade him a 

soldier, he would have been 

one of his best. 



But he lived with a lot of wild mates, 

and they never would let him 

be good ; 
They swore that he dare not rob the 

mail, and he swore that he 

would ; 
And he took no life, but he took one 

purse, and when all was done 
He flung it among his fellows — I'll 

none of it, said my son. 



1 came nito court to the Judge and 

the lawyers. I told them my 

tale, 
God's own truth — but they Idll'd him, 

they kill'd him for robbing the 

mail. 
They hang'd him in chains for a show 

— we had always borne a gcjod 

name — 
To be hang'd for a thief — and then 

put away — isn't that enough 

shame } 
Dust to dust — low down — let us hide 1 

but they set him so high 
That all the ships of the world could 

stare at him, passing by. 
God 'ill pardon the hell-black raven 

and horrible fowls of the air, 
But not the black heart of the lawyer 

who kill'd him and hang'd him 

there. 



IX. 

And the jailer forced me away. I 
had bid him my last goodbve ; 

They had fasten'd the door of his cell. 
' O mother ! ' I heard him cry. 





Rispah. 



couldn't get back tho' I tried, he 
had something further to say, 
)vv I w^y^s shall know it. The 
jailer forced me away. 



Then since I couldn't but hear that 

cry of my boy that was dead, 
Thev seized me and shut me up : they 

fasten'd me down on my bed. 
' Mother, O mother ! '—he call'd in 

the dark to me year after 

year — 
They beat me for that, they beat uie — 

you know that I couldn't but 

hear ; 
And then at the last they found I had 

grown so stupid and still 
They let me abroad again — but the 

creatures had worked their will. 



Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone 

of my bone was left— 
I stole them all from the lawyers — and 

you, will you call it a theft ? — 
My baby, the bones that had suck'd 

me, the bones that had laughed 

and had cried — 
Theirs? O no! they are mine— not 

theirs — they had moved in my 

side. 



Do you think I was scared by the 

bones ? , I kiss'd 'em, I buried 

'em all — 
I can't dig deep, I am old — in the 

night by the churchyard wall. 
My Willy 'ill rise up whole when the 

trumpet of judgment 'ill sound, 
lint I charge you never to say that I 

laid him in holy ground. 

XIII. 



Tl 




would 


scratch 






would 


hang hin 








tree. 


Si 


1 > 


O yes 


—we are , 


/• 




-let a 


11 that be 




And read me a Bible verse of the 
Lord's good will toward i 

' Full of compassion and mercy, the 
Lord ' — let me hear it again ; 

' Full of compassion and mercy — long- 
suffering.' Yes, O yes ! 

For the lawyer is born but to murder 
— the Saviour lives but to 
bless. 

Hc'W never put on the black cap 
except for the worst of the 



And 



ly be 



-and t 



the firs 

heard ; 

may be first. 
Suffering — O long-suffering — yes, as 

the Lord must know, 
Year after year in the mist and the 

wind and the shower and the 



Heard, have you.' what.' they have 
told you he never repented his 

How do they know it ? are they his 
mother.' arejw« of his kin ? 

Heard ! have you ever heard, when 
the storm on the dowr>s be- 
gan. 

The wind that 'ill wail like a child 
and the sea that 'ill moan like 
a man ? 



Election, Election and Reprobation — 

it's all verv well. 
But I go to-night to mv bov, and I 

shall not find him in Hell. 
For I cared so much for my boy that 

the Lord has look'd into my 

care, 
And He means me I'm sure to be 

happy with Willy, I know not 

where. 



And if he be lost— but to s 
soul, that is all your de 

Do yon think that I care for 

if my "boy be gone to the fire 





■ UNCLASP' D THE WEI 




The Northern Cobble? 



God in the dark- 
ay leave n, 

a child— yo 



Madam. I beg your pardon ! I think 

tliat you mean to be kind, 
But 1 rannot iiear what vou sav for 

mv Willv's vuicL-in'the vvi'nd— 
The -ii.nv ami 'ihe >k>- -.. Ijrioht— he 

used Init K. call iu the dark. 
And he calls to me now from the 

church and not from the gibbet 

—for hark ! 
Nay — you can hear it yourself — it is 

coming — shaking the walls — 
Willy — the moon's in a cloud 

Good-night. I am going. He 

calls. 



THE NORTHERN COBBLER. 



Waait till our Sally cooms in, fur 
thou mun a' sights ' to tell. 

Eh, but I be maiiin glad to seeii tha 
sa 'artv an' well. 

•Cast awaay'on a disolut land wi' a 

.Strange fur to goa fur to think what 
saailors a' seean an' a' doon ; 

' Summat to drink— sa' 'ot ? ' I 'a 
nowtbut .^dam'swine: 

What's the 'eiit o' this little 'ill-side to 
the 'eat o' the line .' 



the 



need separaLely 
miunclion. best 



rentier the sound of the long / and y in this 
dialect. But since such words as cmiiit' 
daiin\ whai, al (II, etc., look awkward 
except in a page of express phonetics. I 
have thought it belter to leave the simple 
r and J', and to trust that my readers will 
give them the broader pronunciation. 
2 The 00 short, as in 'wood.' 





•What's i' tha bottle a- 

theer.= ' I'll tell tha. Gin. 
But if thou wants thy grog, tha mun 

goa fur it down to the inn. 
Naay — fur I be maain-glad, but thaw 

tha was iver sa dry, 
Thou gits naw gin fro' the bottle 

theer, an' I'll tell tha why. 



Mea an' thy sister was married, when 

war it.> back-end o' June, 
Ten year sin', and wa 'greed as well 

' as a fiddle i' tune : 
I could fettle and clump owd bouots 

and shoes wi' the best on 'em 

all, 
As fer as fro' Thursbv thnrn hup to 

Harm.sby and Hutterbv Hall. 
We was busy as beeas i' the bloom 

an' as 'a|)py as 'art could think. 
An' then the babbv wur burn, and 

then I taiikes'to the drink. 



We could sing a good song al the 
Plow, we could sing a "uod 
song at the Plow ; 

Thaw once of a frosty night I slither'd 
an' hurled my huck,^ 

An' 



"ti neck-an-crop soom times 
slaaj-ie down i' the squad an' 
the muck : 

An' once I fowl wi' the Taailor— not 
hafe ov a man, my lad — 

Fur he scrawni'd an' scralled my 
faace like a cat, an' il maade 
'er sa mad 

That Sally she turn'd a tongue- 
banger,'- an' raated ma, ' Sot- 
tin' thy braains 

Guzzlin' an' soakin' an' smoakin' an' 
hawmin'^ about i' the laanes, 

Soa sow-droonk that tha doesn not 
touch thy 'at to the Squ 



Scold. 





The Northern Cobbler. 



obk'd cock-eyed at my noase 
an' I seead Mm a-gittiii'o' fire ; 

But sin' I wur hallus i' liquor an' hal- 
lus as droonk as a king, 

Foiilks' coostom flitted avvaay like a 
kite wi' a brokken string. 



An' Sally she wesh'd foalks' deaths 

to keep the wolC fro' the door, 
Eh but the moor she riled me, she 

druv me to drink the moor, 
Fur I fun', when 'er back wur turn'd, 

wheer Sally's owd stockin' wur 

'id, 
An' I grabb'd the munny she maade, 

and I wear'd it o' liquor, I did. 



An' one night I cooms "oam like a 

bull gotten loose at a faair. 
An' she wur a-waaitin' fo'nmia, an' 

cryin' and tearin' 'er 'aair. 
An' I tummled athurt the craadle an' 

swear'd as I'd breiik ivry stick 
O' furnitur 'ere i' the 'ouse, an' I gied 

our Sally a kick. 
An' I mash'd the taables an' chairs, 

an' she an' the babby beal'd,' 
Fur I knaw'd navv moor what I did 

nor a mortal beast o' the feald. 



vhen I waaked i' the murnin' I 



Cos' o' the kick as I gied 'er, an' I 
wur dreadful ashaamed ; 

An' Sally wur slooniy - an' draggle 
taail'd in an owd turn gown. 

An' the babby's faace wurn't wesh'd 
an' the 'ole 'ouse hupsidedown 



then I minded our Sally sa pratly 
an' neat an' sweeat, 

I pole an' clean as a flower 
fro' 'ead to feeat : 

Bellowed, cned out. 
Slu^ijjisii, out of spirits. 





An' then I minded the fust ki; 

'er by Thursby thuvn ; . 
Theer wur a lark a-singin' 'is' best of 

a Sunday at mum. 
Couldn't see 'im, we 'eard 'im a- 

mountin' oop 'igher an' 'igher. 
An' then 'e turn'd to the sun, an' 'e 

shined like a sparkle o' fire. 
' Doesn't tha see 'im,' she axes, ' fur I 

can see 'im .'' ' an' I 
Seead nobbut the smile o' the sun as 

danced in 'er pratty blue eye ; 
An' I says ' I mun gie tha a kiss,' an' 

Sally says ' Noa, thou moant,' 
But 1 gied 'er a kiss, an' then anoother, 

an' Sally says ' doant ! ' 

IX. 
An' when we coom'd into Meeatin', at 

fust she wur all in a tew. 
But, arter, we sing'd the 'ymn togither 

like birds on a beugh ; 
An' Muggins 'e preach'd o' Hell-fire 

an' the loov o' God fur men. 
An' then upo' coomin' awaay Sally 

gied me a kiss ov 'ersen. 



to a kick 



Heer wur a fall fn 

like Saatan as fell 
Down out o' heaven i' Hell-fire — thaw 

theer's naw drinkin' i' Hell ; 
Mea fur to kick our Sally as kep the 

wolf fro' the door. 
All along o' the drink, fur I loov'd 'er 

as well as afoor. 



Sa like a great num-cumpus I blub- 

ber'd awaay o' the bed — 
' Weant niver do it naw moor ; ' an' 

Sally loobkt up an' she said, 
' I'll upowd it 1 tha weant ; thou'rt like 

the rest o' the men, 
Thou'll goa snitfin' about the tap till 

tha does it agean. 
Theer's thy hennemy, man, an' I 

knaws, as knaws tha sa well. 
That, if tha seeiis 'im an' smells 'im 

tha'U foUer 'im slick into Hell.' 





The Northern Cobbler. 



' Xaay,' says I, ' fur I weantgoa sniffiu 

about the tap." 
' Weant tlia ? ' she says, an' mysen I 

thowt i' myseii ' mayhap.' 
' Noa : ' an' I started awaay like a shot, 

an' down to the Hinn, 
An' I browt what tha seeas stannin' 

theer.yon big black bottle o' gin. 

XIII. 

' That caps ovvt,' ' says Sally, an' saw 

she begins to cry, 
But I puts it inter 'er 'ands an' I says 

to 'er, ' Sally,' says T, 
' Stan' 'im theer i' the naame o' the 

Lord an' the power ov 'is 

Graace, 
Stan' 'im theer, fur I'll loook my hen- 

nemy strait i' the faace, 
Stan' 'im theer i' the winder, an' let 

ma loook at 'im then, 
"E seeams naw moor nor watter, an' 

'e's the Divil's oan sen.' 



An' I wur down i' tha mouth, couldn't 

do naw work an' all. 
Nasty an' snaggy an shaaky, an' 

poonch'd my 'and wi' the hawl. 
But she wur a power o' coomfut, an' 

sattled 'ersen o' my knee, 
An' coakd an' coodled me oop till 

agean I feel'd mysen free. 



An' Sally she tell'd it about, an 'foalk 

stood a-gawmin' ^ in. 
As thaw it wur summat bewitch'd 

istead of a quart o' gin ; 
An' some on 'em said it wur watter — 

an' I wur chousin' the wife, 
Fur I couldn't 'owd 'ands off gin, wur 

it nobbut to saave my life ; 
An' blacksmith 'e strips me the thick 

ov'i.sairm, an' 'eshaws it tome, 
' Feeal thou this ! thou can't graw this 

upo' watter I ' says he. 



That's bej'ond everylhingr- 





An' Doctor 'e calls o' Sunday an' just 

as candles was lit, 
' Thou moant do it,' he says, ' thamun 

break 'im off bit by bit.' 
' Thou'rt but a Methody-man,' says 

Parson, and laays down "is 'at. 
An' 'e points to the bottle o' gin, ' but 

I respecks tha fur that ; ' 
An' Squire, his oan very sen, walks 

down fro' the 'AH to see. 
An' 'e spanks 'is 'and into mine, ' fur I 

respecks tha,' says 'e ; 
An' coostom agean draw'd in like a 

wind fro' far an' wide. 
And browt me the booots to be cob- 
bled fro' hafe the coontryside. 

.XVI. 

An' theer 'e stans an' theer 'e shall 

Stan to my dying daay ; 
I 'a gotten to loov 'im agean in an- 

oother kind of a waay. 
Proud on 'im, like, my lad, an' I 

keeaps 'im clean an' bright, 
Loovs 'im, an' roobs 'im, an' doosts 

'im, an' puts 'im back i' the light. 



,\vn. 
•Wouldn't a pint a' sarved as well as a 

quart t Naw doubt : 
But I liked a bigger feller to fight wi' 

an' fowt it out. 
Fine an' meller 'e mun be by this, if I 

cared to taaste. 
But I moant, my lad, and I weant fur 

I'd feal mysen clean disgraaced. 



An' once I said to the Missis, ' My 

lass, when I cooms to die. 
Smash the bottle to smithers, the 

Divil's in 'im,' said I. 
But arter I chaiinged my mind, an' if 

Sally be left aloan, 
I'll hev'ini a-buried wi'mma an' taake 

'im afoor the Throan. 



Coom thou 'eer— yon laady a-steppin' 
along the streeat. 





The Revenge. 



Doesn't tha knaw 'er — sa pratty, an' 
feat, an' neat, an sweeat ? 

Look at the cl oaths on 'er back, 
tlieblie am most spick-span-new, 

An' Tommy's faace be as fresh as a 
codbn wesh'd i' the dew. 



' Ere be our Sally an' Tommy, an' we 

be a-going to dine, 
Baacon an' taates, an' a beslings-pud- 

din'' an' Adam's wine ; 
But if tha wants ony grog tha mun goa 

fur it down to the Hinn, 
Fur I weant shed a drop on 'is blood, 

noa, not fur Sally's oan kin. 



THE REVENGK. 
BALLAD OF THE FLEET. 



At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard 

Grenville lay. 
And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, 

came flying from far away : 
' Spanish ships of war at sea ! we 

have sighted fifty-three ! ' 
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: 

' 'Fore God I am no coward ; 
But I cannot meet them liere, for my 

ships are out of gear. 
And the half my men are sick. I 

must fly, but follow quick. 
We are six ships of the line ; can we 
fight with fifty-three?' 

ir. 
Then spake Sir Richard Grenville : 

' I know you are no coward ; 
You fly them for a moment to fight 

with them again. 
But I've ninety men and more that are 

lying sick ashore. 
I should count myself a coward if I 

left them, my Lord Howard, 
To these Inquisition dogs and the 

devildoms of Spain.' 
^ A pudding made with the tirst milk of 





So Lord Howard i.iast away with live 

ships of war that day. 
Till he melted like a cloud in the 

silent summer heaven ; 
But Sir Richard bore in hand all his 

sick men from the land 
Very carefully and slow, 
Men of Bidef'ord in Devon, 
And we laid them on the ballast down 

below ; 
For we brought them all aboard, 
.•\nd they blest him in their pain, that 

they were i 
To the thumbscre 

the glory of the Lord. 



He had only a hundred seamen to 

work the ship and to fight. 
And he sailed away from Flores till 

the Spaniard came in sight, 
With his huge sea-castles heaving 

upon the weather bow. 
'Shall we fight or shall we fly.' 
Good Sir Richard, tell us now. 
For to fight is but to die ! 
There'lf be little of us left by the 

tin:e this sun be set.' 
And Sir Richard snid again : ■ We be 

all good English men. 
Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the 

children of the devil. 
For I never turn'd my back upon Don 



Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, 

and we roar'd a hurrah, and so 
The little Revenge ran on sheer into 

the heart of the foe. 
With her hundred fighters on deck, 

and her ninety sick below; 
For half of their fleet to the right and 

half to the left were seen, 
And the little Revenge ran on thro' 

the long sea-lane between. 




llie Revenge, 



riiousands of their seamen made 
mock at the mad little craft 

Kuiiiiing on and on, till delay'd 

Ijy their mountain-like San Philip 
that, of fifteen hundred tons, 

And up-shadowing high above us 
with her yawning tiers of guns. 

Took the breath from onr sails, and 



And while now the great San Philip 
hung above us like a cloud 

Whence the thunderbolt will fall 

Long and loud. 

Four galleons drew away 

From the Spanish fleet that day, 

And two upon the larboard and two 
upon the starboard lay, 

A.nd the battle-thunder broke from 
them all. 



VIII. 

Ijut anon the great San .Philip, she 

bethought herself and went 
Having that within her womb that 

had left her ill content ; 
And the rest they came aboard us, 

and they fought us hand to 

hand. 
For a dozen times they came with 

their pikes and musqueteers, 
And a dozen times we shook 'em off 

as a dog that shakes his ears 
When he leaps from the water to the 

land. 



IX. 




ceased the fight 

of the one and the fifty-three, 
after ship, the whole night long, 

their high-built galleons came, 
after ship, the whole night long, 

with her battle-thunder and 

flame ; 
after ship, the whole night long, 

drew back with her dead and 

her shame. 




For some were sunk and many wi 
shatter'd, and so could fight 
no more- 
God of battles, was ever a battle like 
this in the world before .> 



For he said ' Fight on ! fight on ! ' 
Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck ; 
And it chanced that, when halt of the 

short summer night was gone, 
With a grisly wound to be drest he 

had left the deck. 
But a bullet struck him that was 

dressing it suddenly dead. 
And himself he was wounded again in 

the side and the head. 
And he said • Fight on ! fight on ! ' 



And the Spanish fleet with broken 
sides lay round us all in a ring ; 

But they dared not touch us again, 
for they fear'd that we still 
could sting. 

So they watch'd what the end would 

And we had not fought them in vain. 
But in perilous plight were we, 
Seeing forty of our poor hundred were 

slain. 
And half of the rest of us maim'd for 

life 
In the crash of the cannonades and 

the desperate strife ; 
And the sick men down in the hold 

were most of them stark and 

cold. 
And the pikes were all broken or 

bent, and the powder was all of 

it spent ; 
And the masts and the rigging were 

lying over the side ; 
But Sir Richard cried in his English 

pride, 
' We have fought such a fight for a 

day and a night 
As may never be fought again ! 
We have won great glory, my men ! 





And a day less or more 

At sea or ashore, 

We die — does it matter when ? 

Sink me the ship. Master Gunner — 

sink her, split her in twain ! 
Fall into the hands of God, not into 

the hands o£ Spain ! ' 



Antl llie gunner said ' Ay, ay, but 

tire seamen made reply : 
' We have children, we have wives, 
And the Lord hath spared our lives. 
We will make the Spaniard promise, 

if we yield, to let us go ; 
We shall live to light again and to 

strike another blow.' 
And the lion there lay dying, and they 

yielded to the foe. 



And the stately Spanish men to their 

flagship'bore him then. 
Where they laid him by the mast, old 

Sir Richard caught at last. 
And they praised him to his face with 

their courtly foreign grace ; 
But he rose upon their decks, and he 

cried: 
' I have fought for Queen and Faith 

like a valiant man and true ; 
I have only done my duty as a man is 

bound to do : 
With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard 

Grenville die ! ' 
And he fell upon their decks, and he 

died. 



And they stared at the dead that had 

been so valiant and true, 
And had holden the power and glory 

of Spain so cheap 
That he dared her with one little ship 

and his English few ; 
Was he devil or man .' He was devil 

for aught they knew. 
But they sank his body with honor 

down into the deep. 





And they mann'd the Revenge with a 

swarthier alien 
And away she sail'd with her loss and 

long'd for her own ; 
When a wind from the lands they had 

ruin'd awoke from sleep. 
And the water began to heave and the 

weather to moan. 
And or ever that evening ended a 

great gale blew. 
And a wave like the wave that is 

raised bv an earthquake grew. 
Till it smote oil their hulls and their 

sails and their masts and their 

flags. 
And the whole sea plunged and fell 

on the shot-shatter" d navy of 

Spain, 
And the little Revenge herself went 

down by the island crags 
To be lost evermore in the main. 



THE SISTERS. 

They have left the doors ajar; and 

by their clash. 
And prelude on the keys, I know the 

song, 
Their favorite — which I call 'The 

Tables Turned.' 
Evelyn begins it ' O diviner Air.' 



O diviner Air, 

Thro' the heat, the drowth, the du: 

the glare, 
Far from out the west in shadowii 

showers. 
Over all the meadow baked and bar 
Making fresh and fair 
All the bowers and the flowers. 
Fainting flowers, faded bowers, 
Over all this weary world of ours. 
Breathe, diviner Air ! 



A sweet voice that — you 

better that. 
Now fol 




Edith echoing Evely 









j<rT\ 1 1 I. r ; i rr 


y. 




1 


T/ie Sisters. 187 






EDITH. 


No sisters ever prized each othei 




O diviner light, 


Not so : their mother and her sister 








t^ Thro' the cloud that roofs our noon 


loved w 






with night, 


More passionately still. 






■i'hro- the blottmg mist, the blinding 


But that my best 






showers, 


And oldest friend, your Uncle, wishes 






Far from out a sky for ever bright. 


it. 






Uver all the woodland's flooded 


And that I know you worthy everv- 






bowers. 


way 






Over all the meadow's drowning 


To be my son, I might, perchance, be 






flowers. 


loath 






Over all this ruin'd world of ours, 


To part them, or part from them : and 






Break, diviner light ! 


yet one 
Should marry, or all the broad lands 












Marvellouslv like, their voices— and 


in your view 






themselves! 


From this bay window— which our 






Tho' one is somewhat deeper than the 


house has held 






other. 


Three hundred years— will pass col- 






As one is somewhat graver than the 


laterally. 






other- 








Edith than Evelvn. Your good 


My father with a child on either 






Uncle, whom 


knee, 






You count the father of vour fortune, 


A hand upon the head of either child. 






longs 


Smoothing their locks, as golden as 






For this alliance: let me ask you 


his own 






then, 


Were silver, 'get them wedded' 






Which voice most takes you? for I 


would he say. 






do not doubt 


AnA once my prattling Edith ask'd 






Being a watchful parent, you are 


him'whv?' 






taken 


Ay, why? said he, 'for why should 






With one or other : tho' sometimes I 


1 go lame?' 






fear 


Then told them of his wars, and of 






You may be flickering, fluttering in a 


his wound. 






doubt 


For see— this wine— the grape from 






Between the two — which must not be 


whence it flow'd 






—which might 


Was blackening on the slopes of Por- 






Be death to one : they both are beau- 


tugal, 






tiful : 


When that brave soldier, down the 






Evelyn is gayer, wittier, prettier, 


terrible ridge 






savs 


Plunged in the last fierce charge at 






The connnon voice, if one may trust 


Waterloo, 






it: she? 


And caught the laming bullet. He 






No! but the paler and the graver. 


left me this, 






Edith. 


Which yet retains a memorv of its 






Woo her and gain her then : no wa- 


youth, 






vering, boy ! 


As I of mine, and my first passion. 






'Y' The graver is perhaps the one for 


Come ^Y* 








you 


Here'sto^your happy union with my . 








Who jest and laugh so easily and so 

well. 
For love will go by contrast, as bv 








Yet must vou change your name : 






V 


likes. 


no fault of mine ! 




: 1 1 llIv 




1 




say thai vou can do it as will- 
ingly 
As birds make ready for their bridal- 

Hy change of feather: for all that, my 
boy, 

Some birds are sick and suileii when 
they moult. 

An old and worthy name ! but mine 
that stirr'd 

Among our civil wars and earlier too 

Among the Roses, the more vener- 
able. 



/care not 


for 


a name— r 


o fault 


of 


Once 


mv 


-I 


lappier ma 


rriage t 


lan 


You see 
the 

The highv 
brea 

Of sward 


yon Lombard 

ly'running by 

dth 

to left and ri 


poplar 
it leave 
5ht. wh 


on 


One 


long 

l)riLdi 


M 


ly morning 


in a world 



popla 



iber 



I dozed ; I woke. An open landau- 

Whirl'd by, which, after it liad past 

me, show'd 
Turning my wav, the loveliest face on 

earth. 
The face of one there sitting oppo- 

< )n whom I brought a strange unhap- 

piness, 
That time I did not see. 

Love at first sight 
May seem — with goodly rhyme and 

reason for it — 
Possible — at first glimpse, and for a 

face 

in a moment — strange. Yet 

once, when first 
I came on lake Llanberris in the 

dark, 
A moonless night with storm— one 




Flash'd out the lake ; and tho' 

loiter'd there 
The full day after, yet in retrospect 




entary thunder- 
in conquers all 



sketch 

Of lake and 

the day. 



The Sun himself has limn'd the 
face for me. 

Not quite so quickly, no, nor half as 
well 

For look you here — the shadows are 
too deep. 

And like the critic's blurring com- 
ment make 

The veriest beauties of the work ap- 
pear 

The darkest faults : the sweet eyes 



fro 
Seem bin 

rial 
Of Edith- 



the I 



Mv 



jther, — both indeed. 



So that bright face was flash'd thro' 

sense and soul 
And by the poplar vanish'd — to be 

found 
Long after, as it seem'd, beneath the 

tall 
Tree-bowers, and those long-sweeping 

beechen boughs 
Of our New Forest. I was there 

alone : 
The phantom of the whirling landau- 
let 
For ever past me by : when one quick 

peal 
Of laughter drew me thro' the glim- 

■mering glades 
Down to the snowlike sparkle of a 

cloth 
On fern and foxglove. Lo, the face 

again. 
My Rosalind in this Arden— Edith— 





Call'd me to join them ; so with these 

spent 
Wl-.at seem'tl my crowning hour, my 
day of days. 

I H-oo'd her then, nor unsuccess- 
fully, 
Tlie worse for her, for me ! was I 

content ? 
Ay — no, not quite ; for now and then ; 

I thought ! 

Laziness, vague love-longings, the , 

bright May, 
Had made a heated haze to magnify 
The charm of Edith — that a man's 

ideal 
Is high in Heaven, and lodged with 

Plato's God, 
Not findable here — content, and not 

content. 
In some such fashion as a man may 

be 
That having had the portrait of his 

Drawn by an artist, looks at it. and 

■ Good : very like ! not altogether he.' 

As yet I had not bound myself by 

words. 
Only, believing I loved Edith, made 
?klith love mi:. Then came the day 

when I, 
Flattering myself that all my doubts 

were fools 
r.orn of the fool this Age that doubts 

of all— 
Xot I that day of Edith's love 




Had braced my purpose to declare 

myself : 
I stood upon the stairs of Paradise. 
The golden gates would open at a 

word. 
I spoke it — told her of my passion, 

seen 
.\nd lost and found again, had got 



Had caught her hand, her evelids fell 

—I heard 
Wheels, and a noise of welcome at 

the doors — 
On a sudden after two Italian years 




younger sister, Evelyn, enter'd — 

there. 
There was the face, and altogether 

she. 
The mother fell about the daughter's 

neck, 
The sisters closed in one another's 

arms, 
Their people throng'd about them 

from the hall. 
And in the thick of question and reply 
I fled the house, driven by one angel 

face. 
And all the Furies. 



I could not free myself in honor — 

bound 
Not by the sounded letter of the word. 
But counterpressures of the yielded 



That timorousl; 

Quick blushes, t 

her eyes 
Upon me when : 



and faintly echoed 
e sweet dwelling o 
le thought I did no 



Were these not bonds.' nay, nay, bu' 

could I wed her 
Loving the other .' do her that grea 



Had I 
Had I 



^•ed he 
: Love 



known 

Grew after marriage to full height and 

form .' 
Yet after marriage, that mock-sister 

there — 
Brother-in-law— the fiery nearness of 

it — 
Unlawful and disloyal brotherhood — 
What end but darkness could ensue 

from this 
For all the three ? So Love and Honor 

jarr'd 
Tho' Love and Honor join'd to raise 

the full 
High-tide of doubt that sway'd me up 

and down 
Advancmg nor retreating. 





dsi 



Edith wrote : 
: ask ' (I did not 



guile than many a 
kled children that 



' My moth. 

tell you- 
A widow with 

child. 
God help the a 

As well as the phnnp cheek — she 

wrought us harm, 
Poor soul, not knowing) ' are vou ill ? " 

(so ran 
The letter) 'you have not been here 

of late. 
Vou will not find me here. At last I 

go 
On that long-promised vi-sit to the 

North. 
I told your wayside story to my mother 
And Evelyn. .She remembers you. 

Farewell. 
Pray come and see my mother. Al- 
most blind 
With ever-srrowing cataract, yet she 

thinks 
.She sees you when she hears. Again 

farewell.' 

Cold words from one I had hoped 

to warm so far 
That I could stamp mv image on her 

heart I 
' Pray come and see my mother, and 

Cold, but as welcome as free airs of 

heaven 
After a dungeon's closeness. Selfish, 

strange I 
What dwarfs are men ! my strangled 

Utter'd a stilled cry— to have vext 

myself 
,-\nd all in vain for her — cold heart or 



Whom I woo'd and won. 
For Evelyn knew not of my former 



ise the simple mother work'd 
upon 
By Edith pray'd me not to whisper 
of it. 





And Edith would be bridesmaid on 
the day. 
But on that day, not being all at 
ease, 

I from thfe altar glancing back upon 
her, 

Before the first ' I will ' was utter'd, 
saw 

The bridesmaid pale, statuelike, pas- 
sionless — 

' No harm, no harm ' I turn'd again, 
and placed 

My ring upon the finger of my bride. 

So, when we parted, Edith spoke no 

word. 
She wept no 'tear, but round my 

Evelyn clung 
In utter silence for so long, I thought 
' What, will she never set her sister 

free ? ' 

We left her, happy each in each, 
and then, 

As tho' the happiness of each in each 

Were not enough, must fain have tor- 
rents, lakes. 

Hills, the great things of Nature and 
the fair. 

To lift us as it were from common- 
place, 

And help us to our joy. Better have 
sent 

Our Edith thro' the glories of the 
earth. 

To change with her horizon, if true 
Love 

Were not his own imperial all-in-all. 

Far off we went. My God, I would 
gross hard- 
f the Powers 



akec 



Save that I think th 

seeming world 
Is our misshaping visioi 
Behind the world, that i 
our gains. 



For on the dark night of 

marriage-day 
The great Tragedian, that 

quench'd herself 
In that assumption of the bride 

— she 



efs 





Tlia 
Wit 
Kene 


loved me— our 
brain broke 
over-acting, til 
fled 

atli a pitiless rt 


rue Edith- 
she rose 
sh of Aut 


-her 
and 


Tot 


lie deaf church — 


o be 


let in 


—to 


Befo 


pray 
re that altar— so 


I th 


nk; 


and 



Tho' 



of 




as great as Edith's po' 



They found her beating the hard Prot- 
estant doors. 

She died and she was buried ere we 
knew. 



speak. 



I learnt it first. I had 

The bright quick smile of Evelyn, that 

had sunn'd 
The morning of our marriage, past 

away : 
And on our home-return the daily 

want 
Of Edith in the house, the garden, 

still 
Haunted us like her ghost ; and by 

and by, 
Either from that necessity for talk 
Which lives with blindness, or plain 

innocence 
Of nature, or desire that her lost 

child 
.Sliould earn from both the praise of 

heroism, 
The mother broke her promise to the 

dead. 
And told the living daughter with 

Edith had welcomed mv brief wooing 

of her, 
And all her sweet self-sacrifice and 

death. 



Henceforth that 



Had lessen'd, but the mother's garru- 
lous wail ■ 
For ever woke the unhappy Past 

again, 
Till that dead bridesmaid, meant to be 
I my iM-ide, 

Put forth cold hands between us, and 

f fear'd 
The very fountains of her life were 

chill'd; 
So took her thence, and brought her 

here, and here 
She bore a child, whom reverently we 

call'd 
Edith ; and in the second year was 

born 
A second — this I named from her own 

self, 
Evelyn ; then two weeks — no more — 

she joined. 
In and beyond the grave, that one she 

loved. 
Now in this quiet of declining 

life. 
Thro' dreams bv night and trances of 

the day, ' 
The sisters glide about ine hand in 

hand. 
Both beautiful alike, nor can I tell 
One from the other, no, nor care to 

tell 
One from the other, only know they 



Thev 



all 



jpon 



:, til 



iber- 



The love they both have borne me, 

and the love 
I bore them both — divided as I am 
From either by the stillness of the 

grave— ' 
I know not which of these I love tht 

best. 





The Village' Wife: or. The Eutail. 



Is vet uatouch'd : and I that hold 

them both 
Dearest of all things — well, I am not 

a preference either- 

And in the rich vocabulary of Love 
' Most dearest ' be a true superlative — 
I thinlc / likewise love vour Edith 



THE VILLAGE WIFE ; OR, 
THE ENTAIL.' 



'OUSE-KEEPEK -cnt tha mv lass, 

New Sciinic coomM "last ni 
Uutter an- hcu_._v,.-v„. Til 

Wi' tha Ijark : all rit;ht ; 
Gutter I warrants be prime, an' I ' 

rants the heggs be as well, 
Hafe a pint o' milk runs out whei 

breaks the shell. 




HI. 
Fur 'staate be i' taail, my lass: tha 

dosn' knaw what that be .■" 
But I knaws the law, I does, for the 

lawyer ha towd it me. 
■ When theer's naw 'ead to a 'Ouse by 

the fault o' that ere niaale — 
The gells they counts fur nowt, and 

the ne.xt un he taakes the taail.' 



What be the next un like ? can tha tell 

ony harm on 'im lass .' — 
Naay sit down — naw 'urry — sa 

cowd !— hev another gla.s^ ! 
Straange an' cowd fur the time ! we 

may happen a fall o' snaw — 
Not es I cares fur to hear 

but I likes to kriaw. 
An' I 'oaps es 'e beaut boooklarn'd : 

but 'e dosn' not cooni fro' the 

shere ; 
We'd anew o' that wi' the .Squire, an' 

we haates boobklarnin' ere. 



harm. 



Sit thysen down fur a bit : hev a glass 

o' cowslip wine ! 
I liked the owd .Squire an' 'is gells as 

thaw thev was gells o' mine. 
Fur then we was all es one, the Squire 

Hall but Miss Annie, the'heldest, I 

niver not took to she : 
But Nelly, the last of the cletch, 2 I 

liked 'er the fust on 'em ail. 
Fur hoffens we talkt o' mv darter es 

died n- the fever at fall : 
An' I thowt 'twur the will o' the Lord, 

but Miss Annie she said it wur 

Fur she hedn't nawcoomfut in 'er, an' 
arn'dnaw thanks fur'er paains. 

Eh! thebbe all wi' the Lord my 
childer, I han't gotten none I 

Sa new Squire's coom'd wi' 'is taail in 
'is 'and, an' owd Squire's gone. 

. Cobbler.' 




Whoat 
Hallus 



knaws thebbe 



An 


the gell 
an' th 


s, the 


• hedi 


•t naw ta 






■erhe 


towd it m 


Th 


It 'is tail 


1 were soa 


tied up es 




could 


I't ni 


How, 


a tree .' 


•Drat the ti 




avs r, 


to be sew 




haate 


'em 


mv la 




Fu 


we puts 


the 1 


lurk n 


• the land 




thev 


neks 


the 1 


Mick fro' 




grass 








An 


Squire 


wur 


hallus 


a-smilin', 




gied t 


othe 


tramp 


^ goin' by- 





The Village Wife; or, The Entail. 



An' all o' the wust i' the parish— wi' 
hoffens a drop in 'is eye. 

An' ivry darter o' Squire's hed her 
awn ridin-erse to 'ersen, 

An' they rampaged about wi' their 
grooms, an' was 'untiii' arter the 

An' hallus a-dallackt' an' dizen'd out, 
an' a-biiyin' new cloathes, 

While 'e sit like a great glimmer- 
gowk ^ wi' 'is glasses athurt 'is 
noase, 

An' 'is noase sa griifted wi' snuff 
es it couldn't be scroob'd awaay, 

"'_^^iff"njr. '""';;:!"""" 

arter tht '. :. , ■ _ ,;;. 

leaved it to Charlie 'is son. 
An' 'e niver not fish'd 'is awn ponds, 

but Charlie 'e cotch'd the pike, 
For 'ewarn't not burn to the land, an' 

'e didn't take kind to it like; 
But I ears es 'e'd gie fur a howry^ 

owd book thutty pound an' 

An' 'e'd wrote an owd book, his awn 
sen, sa I knaw'd es 'e'd coom to 
be poor; 

An' 'e gied— I be fear'd fur to tell tha 
'ow much — fur an ciwd scratted 

An' 'e digg'd up a loonip i' the land 
an' 'e got a brown pot an' a boan. 

An' 'e bowt owd money, es wouldn't 
goa, wi' good gowd o' the Queen, 

An' 'e bowt little statutes all-naakt an' 
which was a shaame to be seen ; 

But 'e niver loookt ower a bill, nor 'e 

An' 'e niver knawd nowt but booaks. 
an' booaks, as thou knaws. 
beant nowt. 



VIII. 

But owd Squire's laady es Long es she 
lived she kep 'em all clear, 

Thaw es long es she lived I niver 
hed none of 'er darters 'ere ; 




But arter she died wt 

the childer an' me. 
An' sarvints runn'd in an' out, an' 

offens we hed 'em to tea. 
Lawk ! 'ow I laugh'd when the lasses 

'ud talk o' their Missis's waays, 

An' the Missisis talk'd o' the lasses. 

— I'll tell tha some o' these daays. 

Hoanly Miss Annie were saw stuck 

oop, like 'er mother afoor — 
'Er an' 'er blessed darter — they niver 

derken'd my door. 



An' Squire 'e sn 


iled an' 'e smiled till 


'e'd gotte 


a fright at last. 


An' 'e calls fui 


'is son, fur the 'tur- 


nev's lett 


ers thev foller'd sa 


fast; 




But Squire wur 


afear'd o' 'is son. an' 


'e savs to 


'im, meek as a mouse. 


■ Lad, thou mun 


cut off thy taail, or 


' the gells 


illgoatothe'Ouse, 


Fur I finds es 


be that i' debt, es I 




lou'll 'elpmeabit. 


An' if thou'll 'gree to cut off thv taail 




ve my.sen yit.' 




X. 


ButChailxV . 


isba.k'isears, an"e 


SWrais, .( 


■ 'e s.us to 'im 'Noa. 


rveg.,iu,,tl,.. ■ 


!..:it-' l>v the taail an' 


be .l.-.r^uM 


11 1 ivcr let goa ! 


Coom ! coom ! t 


vther,' e savs, ' why 


shouldn't 


thv boobks be sowd ? 


I hears es soom 


o' thy boobks mebbe 



XI. 



Heaps; 
But the 



aps o' boooks. 
;long'd to the Squ 
teard out le 




see'd 
|uire. 
lasses 'ed teard out leaves i' 
le middle to kindle the fire ; 
St on 'is owd big boobks 
tch'd nigh to nowt at the saale, 
iiire were at Charlie agean to 





The Village Wife: or, The Entail. 



Not thaw ya went fur to raalse out 
Hell wi' a small-tooth coamb — 

Droonk wi' the Quoloty's wine, an' 
droonk wi' the farmer's aale, 

Mad wi' the lasses an' alt — an' "e 
wouldn't cut off the taail. 



Thou's coom'd oop by the beck ; and 

a thurn be a-grawin" theer, 
I niver ha seed it'sa white wi' the 

Maay as I see'd it to-year — 
Theerabouts Charlie joompt — and it 

gied me a scare tother night, 
Fur I thowt it wnr Charlie's ghoast i' 

the derk, fur it loookt sa white. 
' Billy,' says 'e,'hev a joomp ! '— thaw 

the banks o' the beck be sa high, 
Fur he ca'd 'is 'erse Billy-rough-un, 

thaw niver a hair wu'r awrv ; 
But Billy fell bakkuds o' Charlie, an' 

Charlie 'e brnk 'is neck, 
Sa theer wur a hend o' the taail, fur 

'e lost 'is taail i' the beck. 



Sa 'is taail wur lost an' 'is boooks wur 

gone an' 'is boy wur dead, 
An'Squire 'e smiled an' 'e smiled, but 

'e niver not lift oop 'is 'ead : 
Hallus a soft un Squire! an' 'e 

smiled, fur 'e hedn't naw friend, 
Sa feyther an' son was buried to- 

gither, an' this wur the hend. 



XV. 



Par 



the call, n. 
^ the pride 



the 



«pi 



'E reads of a sewei .1 

the tother side 
But I beant that sewer cs the Lord. 

howsiver they praay'd an' 

praay'd. 
Lets them inter 'eaven easv es leaves 

their debts to be pniiid. 
Siver the mou'ds rattled down upo' 

poor owd Squire i' the wood, 
An' I cried along wi' the gells, tur 

they weant niver coom to naw 

good. 





Fur Molly the long un she walkt 

awaay wi' a hotScer lad. 
An" nawbody 'eard on 'er sin, sa o' 

coorse she be gone to the bad ! 
An' Lucy wur laiime o' one leg, sweet- 

'arts she niver 'ed none — 
Straange an' unheppen 1 Miss Lucy ! 

we naamed her ' Dot an' gaw 

one !' 
An' Hetty wur weak i'the hattics, wi'- 

out ony harm i' the legs. 
An' the fever 'ed baaked Jinny's 'ead 

as bald as one o' them heggs. 
An' Nelly wur up fro' the craiidle as 

big i' the mouth as a cow. 
An' saw she mun hamniergrate, - lass, 

or she weant git a maate onv- 

how! ' 

An' es for Miss Annie es call'd me 

afoor my awn f oal ks to my faace 
' A hignorant 'village wife as 'ud hev 

to be larn'd her awn plaace,' 
Hes fur Miss Hannie the heldest hes 

now be a-grawiu' sa howd, 
I knaws that mooch o' shea, es it 

beant not fit to be towd ! 



Sa I didn't not taake it kindly ov owd 

Miss .A.nnie to saay 
Es I should be talkin agean 'em, es 

soon es thev went awaay. 
Fur, lawks ! 'ow 1 cried when they 



Fur I'd ha done owt for the Squire 

an' 'is gells es belong'd to the 

land; 
Boooks, es I said afoor, thebbe ney- 

ther 'ere nor theer! 
But I sarved 'em wi' butter an' heggs 

fur huppuds o' twenty year. 

xvni. 

An' they hallus paiiid what I hax'd, 
sa I hallus deal'd wi' 

An' they knaw'd what buttt 

they knaw'd what a hegg 
an' all; ^^ 



Ungainly, 





Th: C/u/drn,-s Hospital. 



Hugger-mugger they lived, but they 

wasn't that easy to please, 
Till I gied 'em Hinjian curn, an' they 

laaid big heggs es tha seeas ; 
An' I niver puts saame ' i' my butter, 

they does it at Willis's farm, 
Taaste another droj) o' the wine — 

tvveant do tha naw harm. 



Sa new Squire's coom'd wi' 'is taail in 

'is 'and, an' owd Squire's gone ; 
I lieard 'im a roomlin' by, but arter 

my nightcap war on ; 
Sa I han't clapt eyes on 'im yit, fur 

he coom'd last night sa laate — 
rinksh! I !'^ the hens i' the peas! 

why didn't tha hesp the gaate ? 



IN THE CHILDREN'S 
HOSPITAL. 



Our doctor had call'd in another, I 

never had seen him before, 
But he sent a chill tr> my heart when I 

saw him come in at the door. 
Fresh from the surgery-schools of 

France and of other lands^ 
Harsh red hair, big voice, big chest, 

big merciless hands ! 
Wonderful cures he had done, O yes, 

but they said too of him 
He was happier using the knife than 

in trying to save the limb. 
And that 1 can well believe, for he 

look'd so coarse and so red, 
I could think he was one of those who 

would break their jests on the 

dead, 
And mangle the living dog that had 
ed him and fawn'd at his 

knee — 




■nch'd \ 
that 
be! 



ilh the hellish oorali — 
;ver such things should 



Here was a boy — I am sure that some 

of our children would die 
But for the voice of Love, and the 

smile, and the comforting eye — 
Here was a boy in the ward, every 

bone seem'd out of its place — ' 
Caught in a mill and crush'd — it was 

all but a hopeless case; 
And he handled him gently enough : 

but his voice and his face were 

not kind. 
And it was but a hopeless case, he 

had seen it and made up his 

mind. 
And he said to me roughly 'The lad 

will need little more of your 

' All the more need,' I told him, ' to 

seek the Lord Jesus in prayer ; 
They are all his children here, and I 

pray for them all as my own : ' 
But he turn'd to me, ' Ay, good 

woman, can prayer set a broken 

bone .' ' 
Then he mutter'd half to himself, but 

I know that I heard him say 
' All very well — but the good Lord 

Jesus has had his day.' 

ni. 
Had.' has it come.' It has only 

dawn'd. It will come by and 

by. 
O how could I serve in the wards if 

the hope of the world were a 

lie ? 
How could I bear with the sights and 

the loathsome smells of dis- 
ease 
But that He said ' Ye do it to me, 

when ye do it to these ' .' 



IV. 
So he went. And we past to this 
ward where the younger chil- 





The Childrcns Hospital. 



Here is the cot of our orphan, our 

darling, our meek little maid ; 
Empty you see just now ! We have 

lost her who loved her so 

much- 
Patient of pain tho' as quick as a 

sensitive plant to the touch ; 
Hers was the prettiest prattle, it often 

moved me to tears. 
Hers was the gratefullest heart I have 

found in a child of her years — 
Nay you remember our Emmie ; you 

used to send her the flowers ; 
How she would smile at 'em, play 

with 'em, talk to "em hours 

after hours ! 
They that can wander at will where 

the works of the Lord are 

reveal'd 
Little guess what jov can be got from 

a cowslip out of the held; 
Flowers to these ' spirits in prison ' 

are all tliev can know of the 



spring. 
They freshen ai 
like the 



aft 



the wards 
m Angel's 



And she lay with a flower in one hand 
and her thin hands crost on her 
breast — 

Wan, but as pretty as heart can 
desire, and we thought her at 

Quietly sleeping — so quiet, our doctor 

said ' Poor little dear. 
Nurse, I must do it to-morrow ; she'll 

never live thro' it, I fear.' 



I walk'd with our kindly old doctor i 
far as the head of the stair. 

Then I return'd to the ward; tl 
child didn't see I was there. 



Never smce ' 

so grieved and so vext ! 
Emmie had heard him. Softly 

call'd from her cot to the n 
' He says I shall never live thro' i 

Annie, what shall I do ? ' 




Aynie consider'd. ' If I,' said the 
wise little Annie, 'was you, 

I should cry to the dear Lord Je 
lielp — ^ — ^ *" 




for, Emmie, 



Little 



(Meaning the print that you gave us, I 

find that it always can please 
Our children, the dear Lord Jesus 

with children about his knees.) 
' Yes, and I will,' said Emmie, ' but 

then if I call to the Lord, 
How should he know that it's me? 

such a lot of beds in the ward ! ' 
That was a puzzle for Annie. Again 

she consider'd and said : 
' Emmie, you put out your arms, and 

you leave 'em out,side on the 

bed— 
The Lord has so tnuch to see to ! 

but, Emmie, you tell it him 

plain. 
It s the little girl with her arms lying 

out on the counterpane.' 



I had sat three nights by the child — I 

could not watch her for four — 
My brain had begun to reel— I felt I 

could do it'no more. 
That was my sleeping-night, but I 

thought that it never would 

pass. 
There was a thunderclap once, and a 

clatter of hail on the glass. 
And there was a phantom cry that I 

heard as I tost about. 
The motherless bleat of a lamb in the 

storm and the darkness with- 
out ; 
My sleep was broken besides with 

dreams of the dreadful knife 
And fears for our delicate Ennnie 

who scarce would escape with 

her life ; 
Then in the gray of the morning it 

seem'd she stood by nie and 

smiled. 
And the doctor came at his hour, and 

we went to see the child. 





to tlu- Frinccss Alice 



Say that His day is done ! Ah why 
should we care what they say ? 

The Lord of the children had heard 
her, and Emmie had past away. 



DEDICATORY POEM TO THE 
PRINCESS ALICE. 

Dead Princess, living Power, if that, 

which lived 
True life, live on— and if the fatal 



Born of true life and lov 

thee not 
From earthly love and lift 

we cal'l 
The spirit flash not all at 

Thi. 



shadow into Substance— then 

perhaps 
The mellow'd murmur of the people's 

praise 
From thine own .State, and all our 

breadth of realm. 
Where Love and Longing dress thy 

deeds in light. 
Ascends to thee ; and this March 

morn that sees 
Thy Soldier-brother's bridal orange- 
bloom 
Break thro' the yews and cypress of 

thy grave, 
And thine Imperial mother smile 

again, 
May send one ray to thee ! and who 

can tell — 
Thou — England's England-loving 

daughter — thou 
Dying so English thou wouldst have 

her flag 
Borne on thy coffin — where is he can 

swear 
But that some broken gleam from our 

poor earth 





May touch thee, while remembering 

thee, I lay 
At thy pale feet this ballad of the 

deeds 
Of England, and her banner in the 

East? 



THE DEFEN'CE OF 
LUCKNOW. 



Banner of England, not for a season, 

O banner of Britain, hast thou 
Floated in conquering battle or flapt to 

the battle-cry ! 
Never with mightier glory than when 

we had rear'd thee on high 
Flying at top of the roofs in the ghastly 

siege of Lucknow — 
Shot thro' the staff or the halyard, but 

ever we raised thee anew. 
And ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner of England blew. 



en and children among 
help them, our childr 



1 days 



Hold it we might — andforfifte 

or for twenty at most. 
' Never surrender, I charge you, but 

every man die at his post ! ' 
Voice of the dead whom we loved, our 

Lawrence the best of the brave : 
Cold were his brows when we kiss'd 

him — we laid him that night in 

his grave. 
' Every man die at his post ! ' and there 

hail'd on our houses and halls 
Death from their rifle-bullets, and 

death from their cannon-balls. 
Death in our innermost chamber, and 

death at our slight barricade, 
Death while we stood with the musket, 

and death while we stoopt to the 

spade, 





Death to the dying, and wounds to the 

inded, for often there fell, 
Striking the hospital wall, crashing 

thro' it, their shot and their 

shell. 
Death— for their spies were among us, 

their marksmen were told of 

our best, 
•So that the brute bullet broke thro' 

the brain that could thmk for 

the rest ; 
Bullets would sing by our foreheads, 

and bullets would rain at our 

feet- 
Fire from ten thousand at once of the 

rebels that girdled us round — 
Death at the glimpse of a finger from 

over the breadth of a street, 
Death from the heights of the mosque 

and the palace, and death in the 

ground ! 



Mi: 



the hold ! 
Keep the revoh 

hejr him- 
Quiet, : " 



creep 



thro' 



hand ! 



can 

jrderous mole ! 

quiet — wait till the point of 

the pickaxe be thro'! 

Click with the pick, coming nearer 

and nearer again than before — 

Now let it speak, and you fire, and the 

dark pioneer is no more ; 

And ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner of England blew ! 



Ay, but the foe sprung his mine many 

times, and it chanced on a 

day 
Soon as the blast of that underground 

thunderclap echo'd away. 
Dark thro' the smoke and the sulphur 

like so many fiends in their 

hell- 
Cannon-shot, musket-shot, volley on 

volley, and veil upon yell — ■* 
P'iercely on all "the defences our 

myriad enemy fell. 
What have they done ? where is it ? 

Out yonder. Guard the Redan ! 
Storm at the Water-gate ! storm at the 

Bailey-gate ! storm, and it ran 




Surging and swaying all round us, as 

ocean on every side 
Plunges and heaves at a bank that is 

daily devour'd by the tide- 
So many 'thousands that if they be 

bold enough, who shall escape .' 
Kill or be kill'd, live or die, they shall 

know we are soldiers and men ! 
Ready ! take aim at their leaders — 

their masses are gapp'd with 

our grape — 
Backward they reel like the wave, like 

the wave flinging forward again, 
Flying and foil'd at the last by the 

handful they could not subdue ; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner of England blew. 



Handful of men as we were, we were 

English in heart and in limb, 
Strong with the strength of the race to 

command, to obey, to endure. 
Each of us fought as if hope for the 

garrison hung but on him ; 
Still — could we watch at all points.' 

we were every day fewer and 

fewer. 
There was a whisper among us, but 

only a whisper that past : 
' Children and wives — if the tigers 

leap into the fold unawares — 
Every man die at his post — and the 

foe may outlive us at last — 
Better to fall'by the hands that they 

love, than to fall into theirs ! ' 
Roar upon roar in a moment two 

mines by the enemy S|)rung 
Clove into perilous chasms our walls 

and our poor palisades. 
Rifleman, true is your keart, but be 

sure that your hand be as true ! 
Sharp is the fire of assault, better 

aimed are your flank fusillades — 
Twice do we hurl them to earth from 

the ladders to which they had 

clung, 
Twice from the ditch where they 

shelter we drive them with 

hand-grenades ; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner of England blew. 





The Defence of Liicknozv. 



Then on another wild morning another 

wild earthquake out-tore 
Clean from our lines of defence ten or 

twelve good paces or more. 
Rifleman, high on the roof, hidden 

there from the light of the sun — 
One has leapt up on the breach, crying 

out : ' Follow me, follow 

me I ' — 
Mark him— he falls I then another, 

and hint too, and down goes he. 
Had they been bold enough then, who 

can tell but the traitors had 

Boardings and rafters and doors— an 
embrasure ! make way for the 
gun! 

Now double-charge it with grape ! It 
is charged and we tire, and they 

Praise to our Indian brothers, and let 

the dark face have his due I 
Thanks to the kindly dark faces who 

fought with us, faithful and few, 
Fought with the bravest among us, and 

drove them, and smote them, 

and slew, 
That ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner in India blew. 



Men will forget what we suffer and 
not what we do. We can 
fight! 

But to be soldier all day and be senti- 
nel all thro' the liight — 

Ever the mine and assault, our sallies, 
their lying alarms. 

Bugles and drums in the darkness, and 
shoutings and soundings to 

Ever the labor of fifty that had to be 

done by five, 
Ever the marvel among us that one 

should be left alive, 
Ever the day with its traitorous death 

from the loopholes an imd, • 
Ever the night with ils cuffinless 

corpse to be laid in the ground. 
Heat like the mouth of a hell, or a 

deluge of cataract skies, 





Stench of old offal decaying, 
infinite torment of flies. 

Thoughts of the breezes of May blow- 
ing over an English field. 

Cholera, scurvy, and fever, the wound 
that woiilJ not be heal'd. 

Lopping away of the limb by the piti- 
ful-pitiless knife,— 

Torture and trouble in vain, — for it 
never could save us a life. 

Valor of delicate women who tended 
the hospital bed. 

Horror of women in travail among 
the dying and dead, 

Grief for our perishing children, and 
never a moment for grief. 

Toil and ineffable weariness, faltering 
hopes of relief, 

Havelock baffled, or beaten, or butch- 
er'd for all that we knew — 

Then day and night, day and night, 
coming down on the still-shat- 
ter'd walls 

Millions of musket-bullets, and thou- 
sands of cannon-balls — 

But ever upon the topmost roof our 
banner of England blew. 



true 



Hark cannonade, fusillade ! 

what was told by the scout, 

Outram and Havelock' breaking their 
way through the fell mutineers ? 

Surely the pibroch of Europe is ring- 
ing again in our ears! 

All on a sudden the garrison utter a 
jubilant shout, 

Havelock's glorious Highlanders an- 
swer with conquering cheers. 

Sick from the hospital echo them, 
women and children come out, 

Blessing the wholesome white faces 
of Havelock's good fusileers. 

Kissing the war-harden'd hand of the 
Highlander wet with their 



;h !— sa 
■ it yoi 



Saved by the valor of Havelock, 
saved by the blessing of 
Heaven ! 





Sir John Oldcastlc, Lord Cohham, 



• Hold it for fifteen days ! ' we have 
held it for eighty-seven ! 

And ever aloft on the palace roof the 
old banner of England blew. 



SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE, LORD 
COBHAM. 



My friend should meet me somewhere 

hereabout 
To take me to that hiding in the hills. 

I have broke their cage, no gilded 

one, I trow — 
I read no more the prisoner's mute 

wail 
Scribbled or carved upon the pitiless 

I find hard rocks, hard life, hard 

cheer, or none. 
For I am emptier than a friar's 

But t;nd is with me in this wilderness, 
These svet black passes and foam- 

And Cud's free : 



thing 



id hope of better 



I would I knew their speech ; not 

Not now — I hope to do it — some scat- 
ter'd ears. 

Some ears for Christ in this wild field 
of Wales— 

But, bread, merely for bread. This 
tongue that wagg'd 

They said with such heretical arro- 
gance 

Against the proud archbishop Arun- 
del— 

So much God's cause was fluent in it 
— is here 

But as a Latin Bible to the crowd ; 

' Bara ! ' — what use ? The Shepherd, 
when I speak, 

Vailing a sudden eyelid with his hard 

' Dim Saesneg ' passes, wroth at 
things of old — 




No fault of mine. Had he God's 

word in Welsh 
He might be kindlier : happily come 

the day ! 




thou, thou little Beth- 



In Judah, for in thee the Lord was 
born ; 

Nor thou in Britain, little Lutter- 
worth, 

Least, for in thee the word was born 
again. 

Heaven-sweet Evangel, ever-living 

word, 
Who whilome spakest to the South in 

Greek 
About the soft Mediterranean shores, 
And then in Latin to the Latin crowd, 
As good need was — thou hast come 

to talk our isle. 
Hereafter thou, fulfilling Pentecost, 
Must learn to use the tongues of all 

the world. 
Yet art thou thine own witness that 

thou briugest. 
Not peace, a sword, a fire. 

What did he say. 
My frighted Wiclif-preacher whom I 

In flying hither .' that one night a 

crowd 
Throng'd the waste field about the 

city gates : 
The king was on them suddenly with 

a host. 
Why there ? they came to hear their 

preacher. Then 
Some cried on Cobham, on the good 

Lord Cobham ; 
Ay, for they love me ! but the king — 

nor voice 
Nor finger raised against him — took 

and hang'd. 
Took, hang'd and burnt — how many 

— thirty-nine — 
Call'd it rebellion — hang'd, poor 

friends, as rebels 
And burn'd alive as heretics ! for your 

Priest 
Labels— to take the king along with 

him — 










/<T7] 1 i-g [I 1 rr^ 




■ ■ Sir John Oldcasth', Lord Cohham. 201 


All heresy, treason : but to call men 


Burnt— good Sir Roger Acton, mv 




- • traitors 


dear friend! i . 






May make men traitors. 


Burnt too, my faithful preacher, Bev 






Oo ' Rose of Lancaster, 


erley ! «L 






Red in thy birth, redder with house- 


Lord give thou power to thy two wit- 






hold war, 


nesses ! 






Now reddest with the blood of holy 


Lest the false faith make merry over 






men, 


them ! 






Redder to be, red rose of Lancaster— 


Two— nay but thirty-nine have risen 






If somewhere in the North, as Rumor 


and stand. 






sang 


Dark with the smoke of hmiian sacri- 






Fluttering the hawks of this crown- 


fice. 






lusting line — 


Before thv light, and cry cOntinu- 






By firth and loch thy silver sister 


ally- 






grow,' 


Cry— against whom ? 






That were my rose, there my alle- 


Him, who should bear the sword 






giance due. 


Of Justice-what ! the kingly, kindly 






Self-starved, they say— nay, murder'd, 


boy; 






doubtless dead. 


Who took the world so easily hereto- 






So to this king I cleaved : my friend 


fore. 






was he. 


My boon companion, tavern-fellow— 






Once my fast friend: I would have 


him^ 






given nrv life 


Who gibed and japed — in many a 






To help his own from scathe, a thou- 


merry tale 






sand lives 


That shook our sides— at Pardoners, 






To save his soul. -He might have 


Summoners, 






come to learn 


Friars, absolution-sellers, monkeries . 






Our Wiclifs learning: but the 


And nunneries, alien the wild hour 






worldly Priests 


and the wine 






Who fear the king's hard common- 


Had set the wits aflame. 




, 


sense should find 


Harry of Monmouth. 






What rotten piles uphold their ma- 


Or Amurath of the East ? 








Better to sink 






Urge him to foreign war. O had he 


Thv fleurs-de-Iys in slime again, and 






will'd 


' fling 






I might have stricken a lusty stroke 


Thv royalty back into the riotous fits 






for him. 


Of 'wine and harlotry— thy shame, and 






But he would not; far liever led my 


mine. 






friend 


Thy comrade— than to persecute the 






Back to the pure and universal church. 


Lord, 






P.ut he would not : whether that heir- 


And play the Saul that never will be 






less flaw 


Paul. 






In his throne's title make him feel so 








frail. 


Burnt, burnt ! and while this mitred 






He leans on Antichrist ; or that his 


Arundel 






mind, 


Dooms our unlicensed preacher to the 






So quick, so capable in soldiership. 


flame. 






'V In matters of the faith, alas the while ! 


The mitre-sanction'd harlot draws his ^Y' 






. . More worth than all the kingdoms of 


clerks 






this world. 


Into the suburb— their hard celibacy, " " 






Runs in the rut, a coward to the Priest. 


Sworn to be veriest ice of pureness. 
molten 






' Richard II. 


Into adulterous living, or such ciinie 

. .Vffl 




^^H-t 1-^ I \ 1 iijy 






Sir John Oldcasth; Lord Cobhatn. 



As holy Paul — a sliaiiie to speak of 
them — 

Among the heathen — 

Sanctuary granted 

To bandit, thief, assassin — yea to him 

Who hacks his mother's throat — de- 
nied to him. 

Who finds the Saviour in his mother 
tongue. 

The Gospel, the Priest's pearl, flung 

The swine, lay-men, lay-women, who 

■ will come, 
God willing, to outlearn the filthy 

friar. 
Ah rather, Lord, than that thy Gospel, 

meant 
To course and range thro' all the 

world, should be 
Tether'd to these dead pillars of the 

Church- 
Rather than so, if thou wilt have it so, 
Kurst vein, snap sinew, and crack 

heart, and life 
Pass in the fire of Babvlon ! but how 

long, 
O Lord, how long! 

My friend should meet me here. 
Here is the copse, the fountain and — a 

Cross! 
To thee, dead wood, I bow not head 

nor knees. 
Rather to thee, green boscage, work 

of God, 
Black holly, and white-flower'd way- 
faring tree ! 
Rather to thee, thou living water, 

drawn 
By this good Wiclif mountain down 

from heaven. 
And speaking clearly in thy native 



No I 


atin— He tha 
and drink ! 


t thirsteth. 


come 


Eh 


how I anger 


d Arundel asking 


To worship Holy 
mine arms, 
God's work, I said 


Cross ! I s 


.read 
flesh 




and blood 
And holier. That was heresy. (My 
good friend 




By this time should be with me. 
' Images .'' ' 

' Bury them as God's truer images 

Are daily buried.' ' Heresy. — Pen- 
ance .' ' ' Fast, 

Hairshirt and scourge — nay, let a 
man repent. 

Do penance in his heart, God hears 
him.' 'Heresv— 

Not shriven, not saved?' ' Wh.it 
profits an ill Priest 

Between me and my God ? I would 
not spurn 

Good counsel of good friends, but 
shrive myself 

No, not to an Apostle.' ' Heresy.' 

(My friend is long in coming.), 'Pil- 
grimages ? ' 

' Drink, bagpipes, revelling^ devil's- 
dances, vice. 

The poor man's money gone to. fat the 
friar. 

Who reads of begging saints in Script- 
ure .' ' — ' Heresy ' — 

(Hath he been here — not found me — 
gone again ? 

Have I mislearnt our place of meet- 
ing.') 'Bread — 

Bread left after the blessing ? ' how 
they stared 

That was their main test-question — 
glared at me ! 

' He veil'd Himself in flesh, and now 
He veils 

His flesh in bread, body and bread 
together.' 

Then rose the howl of all the cassock'd 

' No bread, no bread. God's body ! ' 

Archbishop, Bishop, 
Priors, Canons, Friars, bellringers, 

Parish-clerks — 
' No bread, no bread ! ' — ' Authority 

of the Church, 
Power of the keys!'— Then I, God 

help me, I " 
So mock'd, so spu 

whole days 
I lost myself and fell from < 
And rail'd at all the Popes, that 



baited two 





Into the church, had only prov'n them- 
selves 

Toisoners, murderers. Well — God 
pardon all — 

Me, them, and all the world — vea, 
that proud Priest, 

That mock-meek mouth of utter Anti- 
christ, 

That traitor to King Richard and the 
truth, 

Who rose and doom'd me to the fire. 
Amen! 

Nay, I can burn, so that the Lord of 
life 

Be by me in my death. 

Those three ! the fourth 

Was like the Son of God ! Not burnt 
were they. 

On them the smell of burning had not 
past. 

That was a miracle to convert the king. 

These Pharisees, this Caiaphas-Arun- 
del 

What miracle could turn ? He here 
again. 

He thwarting their traditions of Him- 
self, 

He- would be found a heretic to Him- 
self, 

And doom'd to burn alive. 

So, caught, I burn. 

Burn ? heathen men have borne as 
much as this. 

For freedom, or the sake of those 
they loved. 

Or some less cause, some cause far less 
than mine ; 

For every other cause is less than 
mine. 

The moth will singe her wings, and 
singed return. 

Her love of light quenching her fear 
of pain — 

How now, my soul, we do not heed 
the fire ? 

Faint-hearted ? tut !— faintstomach'd ! 
faint as I am, 

God willing, I will burn for Him. 

Who comes ? 

A thousand marks are set upon my 
head. 

Friend ? — foe perhaps — a tussle for it 
then 





Nay, but my friend. Thou art so 

well disguised, 
I knew thee not. Hast thou brought 

bread with thee ? 
I have not broken bread for fifty 

hours. 
None ? I am dajirn'd already by the 

For holding there was bread where 

bread was none — 
No bread. My friends await me 

yonder .' ' Yes. 
Lead on then. Up the mountain ? Is 

it far ? 
Not far. Climb first and reach me 

down thy hand. 
I am not like to die for lack of bread, 
For I must live to testify by fire.^ 



COLUMBUS. 

Chains, my good lord : in your raised 
brows I read 

Some wonder at our chamber orna- 
ments. 

We brought this iron from our isles 
of gold. 

Does the king know you deign to 

Whom once he rose from off his 

throne to greet 
Before his people, like his brother 

king.' 
I saw your face that morning in the 

crowd. 

At Barcelona — tho' you were not 

then 
So bearded. Yes. The city deck'd 

herself 
To meet me, roar'd my name ; the 

king, the queen 
Bad me be seated, speak, and tell 

them all 
The story of my voyage, and whil 

spoke 
The crowd's roar fell as at the ' Peace, 

be still ! ' 



He 



ibun 



Ch 





And when I ceased 
king, the queen, 
from their thrunes, and 



peak, the 
Ited 

d hand and heart 
10 led me thro' the 



Chains for the Admiral of the 

Ocean ! chains 
For him who gave a new heaven, a 

new^ earth, 
As holy John had prophesied of me, 
(lave glory and more empire to the 

kings 
Of Spain than all their battles ! chains 

for him 
Who pnsh'd his prows into the setting 

And made West East, and saii'd the 

the 



iiade West East, am 
Dragon's mouth. 

And came upon the Mour 
World, 

And saw the rivers roll from Para- 
dise! 



Chains ! we 
Ocean, ' 



of the 
Ferdi- 



Of the Ocean— of the Indies— Ad- 

Our title, which we never mean to 

yield, 
Our guerdon not alone for what we 

did, 
But our amends for all we might have 

done — 
Tlie vast occasion of our stronger 



Eight 


;en long years 
in your Spain 


of wa5 


te, sev 


Lost, 


showmg cour 
truth the babe 


ts and 


kings 


Will s 


uck in with his 


milk hereafte 




earth 






A sph 


ere. 








Were you at Sala 
We fronted there the learning of all 

Spain, 
All their cosmogonies, their astron- 

Guess-work //ny guess'd it, but the 

golden guess 
Is morning-star to the full round of 

truth. 
No guess-wurk ! I was certain of my 

goal; 
Some thought it heresy, but that 

would not hold. 
King David call'd the heavens a hide, 

this earth 

Some cited old Lactantius: could it 



That trees gr 



I he great Augustme wrote that none 

could breathe 
Within the zone of heat ; so might 

there be 
Two Adains, two mankinds, and that 

was clean 
Against God's word : thus was I 

beaten back. 
And chieflv to my sorrow bv the 

Church, 
And thought to turn my face from 

Spain, appeal 
Once more to France or England; but 

our Queen 
Recall'd me, for at last their High- 
nesses 
Were half-assured this earth might be 

a sphere. 

All glory to the all-ble.ssed Trinity, 
All glory to the mother of our Lord, 
And Holy Church, from whom I 

never swerved 
Not even by one hair's-breadth of 

heresy, 
I have accomplish'd wha 

do. 





ngi 
Of my first crew, their curses and 

their groans. 
The great flame-banner borne by Ten- 

eriffe, 
The compass, like an old friend false 

at last 
In our most need, appall'd them, and 

the wind 
Still westward, and the weedy seas — 

at length 
The landbird, and the branch with 

berries on it. 
The carven staff — and last the light, 



the 



Etht 



On Cxiianahani 



but I changed 
call'd it; and 



San Salvador 

light 
Grew as I gazed, and brought out a 

broad sky 
Of dawning over — not those alien 

palms, 
The marvel of that fair new nature— 

That Indian isle, but our most an- 
cient East 

Moriah with Jerusalem ; and I saw 

The glory of the Lord flash up, and 
beat 

Thro' all the homely town from jas- 
per, sapphire. 

Chalcedony, emerald, sardonyx, sar- 
dius, 

Chrysolite, beryl, topaz, chrysoprase, 

Jacynth, and amethyst — and those 
twelve gates. 

Pearl — and I woke, and thought — 
death — I shall die — 

I am written in the Lamb's own 
Book of Life 

To walk within the glory of the Lord 

Sunless and moonless, utter light — 

The Lord had sent this bright, strange 

dream to me 
To mind me of the secret vow I 

made 
When Spain was waging war against 

the Moor — 

ivself with Spain against 





The Moslem 

fierce 
Soldan of Egypt, would break down 

and raze 
The blessed tomb of Christ ; whereon 

I vow'd 
That, if our Princes harken'd to my 

prayer. 
Whatever wealth I brought from that 

new world 
Should, in this old, be consecrate to 

lead 
A new crusade against the Saracen, 
And free the Holv Sepulchre from 

thrall. 

Gold ? I had brought your Princes 

gold enough 
If left alone ! Being but a Geno- 

vese, 
I am handled worse than had I been a 

M oor. 
And breach 'd the belting wall of 

Cambalu, 
And given the Great Khan's palaces 

to the Moor, 
Or clutch'd the sacred crown of Pres- 

ter John, 
And cast it to the Moor : but had I 

brought 
From Solomon's now-recover'd Ophir 

all 
The gold that Solomon's navies car- 
ried home. 
Would that have gilded me ? Blue 

blood of Spain, 
Tho' quartering yiur own royal arms 

of Spain, 
I have not : blue blood and black 

blood of Spain, 
The noble and the convict of Castile, 
Howl'd me from Hispaniola ; for you 

know 
The flies at home, that ever swarm 

about 
And cloud the highest heads, and 

murmur down 
Truth in the distance— these out- 





iiur prudent king, our right- 
eous queen — 

I pray'd them being so calumniated 

They would commission one of weight 
and worth 

To judge between my slander'd self 
and me — 

Fonseca my 



nemy at their 

They sent me out /lis tool, liovadilla, 

As ignorant and impolitic as a beast — 
Blockish irreverence, brainless greed 

y papers, 



My dwelling, seized upoi 

loosed 
My captives, feed the rebels of the 

crown, 
Sold the crown-farms for all but noth- 



Drove me and my good brothers 

home in chains. 
And gathering ruthless gold — a single 

piece 
Weigh'd nigh four thousand Castilla- 

nos — so 
They tell me — weigh'd him down into 

the abysm— 
The hurricane of the latitude on him 

fell, 
The seas of our discovering over-roll 
Him and his gold ; the frailer caravel. 
With what was mine, came happily 

to the shore. 
T/ii-rt- was a glimmering of God's 

hand. 



Hath more than glimmer'd on me. O 
my lord, 

I swear to you I heard his voice be- 
tween 

The thunders in the black Veragua 
nights, 

' O soul of little faith, slow to believe ! 

Have I not been about thee from thy 
birth ? 

Given thee the keys of the great 
Ocean-sea ? 

Set thee in light till time shall be no 




Endure! thou hast done so well for 
men, that men 

Cry out against thee: was it other- 
wise 

With mine own Son?' 

And more than once in days 
Of doubt and cloud and storm, when 

drowning hope 
Sank all but out of sight, I heard his 

' Be not cast down. I lead thee by 

the hand. 
Fear not.' And I shall hear his voice 

again— 
I know that he has led me all my life, 
I am not yet too old to work his will — 
His voice again. 

Still for all that, my lord, 
I lying here bedridden and alone, 
Cast off, put by, scouted by court and 



The fir 

1 

Withou 



into fortune — our world's way 
-and I, 
a roof that I can call mine 



buy 



ndrel 



With scarce a 

withal. 
And seeing what a door for 

scum 
I open'd to the West, thro' which the 

lust, 
Villany, violence, avarice, of your 

Spain 
Pour'd in on all those happy naked 



Theii 



princes sla 



kindly 

slaved, 
Their wives and children Spanish 

concubines. 
Their innocent hospitalities quench'd 

in blood. 
Some dead of hunger, some beneath 

the scourge. 
Some over-labor'd, some by their own 

hands,— 





Their babies at the breast for 

Spain— 
Ah God, the harmless people whom 

In Hispaniola's island-Paradise ! 
Who took us for the verv Gods from 



of To lay me in some sh 



Or in that vaster Spaii 

Spain. 
Then some one standing by my grav 



He 



ven, 



And we have sent thein verv fiends 

from Hel! ; 
And I myself, myself not blameless, I 
Could sometimes wish I had never 

led the way. 

Only the ghost of our great Catholic 
Queen 

Smiles on me, saying, ' Be thou com- 
forted ! 

This creedless people will be brought 
to Christ 

And own the holy governance of 
Rome.' 

But who could dream that we. who 
bore the Cross 
Thither, were e-xcommunicated there, 
P"or curbing crimes that scandalized 

the Cross, 
By him, the Catalonian Minorite, 
Rome's Vicar in our Indies.' who be- 
lieve 
These hard memorials of our truth to 

Spain 
Clung closer to us for a longer term 
Than any friend of ours at Court .' 

and yet 
Pardon — too harsh, unjust. I am 
rack'd with pains. 

Vou see that I have hung them by 
my bed, 
.''ind I will have them buried in my 



Sir, in that flight of ages which 

God's 
Own voice to justify the dead — ] 

chance 
Spain once the most chivalric race 

earth, 
Spain then the mightiest, wealtbi 

realm on earth, 
So made by me, may seek to unb 





' Behold the bones of Christopher 

' Ay, but the chains, what do they 

mean — the chains ? ' — 
I sorrow for that kindlv child of Spain 
Who then will have to'answer, ' These 

same chains 
Bound these same bones back thro' 

the Atlantic sea, 
Which he unchain'd for all the world 

to come.' 

O Queen of Heaven who seest the 
souls in Hell . 
And purgatory, I suffer all as much 
As they do — for the moment. .Stay, 

Is here anon : my son will speak for 

Ablier than I can in these spasms that 

grind 
Bone against bone. You will not. 

One last word. 

You move about the Court, I pray 

King Ferdinand who plays with me, 

that one. 
Whose life has been no play with him 

Hidalgos — shipwrecks, famines, fe- 
vers, fights, 

Mutinies, treacheries — wink'd at. and 
condoned — 

That I am loyal to him till the death. 

And ready— tho' our Holy Catholic 
Queen, 

Who fain had pledged her jewels on 
my first voyage. 

Whose hope was mine to spread the 
Catholic faith. 

Who wept with me when I return'd 
in chains. 

Who sits beside the blessed Virgin 





The Voyage of Alaeldime. 



She is gone— but you will tell the 
King, that I, ' 

Rack'd as I am with gout, and 
wrench'd with pains 

Gain'd in the service of His High- 
ness, yet 

Am ready to sail forth on one last 
voyage, 

And readier, if the King would hear, 



thrall. 



le agai 
Holy 



Sepulchre from 



Going? I am old and slighted: 

you have dared 
Somewhat perhaps in coming? my 

poor thanks ! 
I am but an alien and a Genovese. 



THE VOYAGE OF MAEI.DUNE. 



I WAS the chief of the race — he had 

stricken my father ^ead — 
But I gather'd my fellows together, I 

swore I would strike off his 

head. 
Each of them look'd like a king, and 

was noble in birth as in worth, 
And each of them boasted he sprang 

from the oldest race upon 

earth. 
ICach was as brave in the fight as the 

bravest hero of song. 
And c-ach of them liefer had died than 

have done one another a wrong. 
//(' lived on an isle in the ocean — we 

sail'd on a Friday morn — 
He that had slain my father the day 

before I was born. 



And we came to the isle in the ocean, 

and there on the shore was he. 

But a sudden blast blew us out and 





.\\\A we came to the Silent Isle that 

we never had touch'd at before. 
Where a silent ocean always broke on 

a silent shore, 
-■\nd the brooks glitter'd on in the 

light without sound, and the 

long waterfalls 
Pour'd in a thunderless plunge to the 

base of the mountain walls, 
.\nd the poplar and cypress unshaken 

bv storm tiourish'd up beyond 

sight. 
And the pine shot aloft froin the crag 

to an unbelievable height. 
And high in the heaven above it there 

flicker'd a songless lark. 
And the cock couldn't crow, and the 

bull couldn't low, and the dog 

couldn't bark. 
And round it we went, and thro' it, 

but never a murmur, a breath — 
It was all of it fair as life, it was all 

of it quiet as death, 
And we hated the beautiful Isle, for 

whenever we strove to speak 
Our voices were thinner and fainter 

than any flittermouse-shriek ; 
And the men that were mighty of 

tongue and could raise such a 

battle-cry 
That a hundred who heard it would 

rush on a thousand lances and 

die— 
O they to be dunib'd by the charm !— 

so fluster'd with anger were 

thev 



And we came to the Isle of Shouting, 
we landed, a score of wild birds 

Cried from the topmost summit with 
human voices and words; 

( )nce in an hour they cried, and when- 
ever their voices peal'd 

The steer fell down at the plow and 
the harvest died from the field, 

XwA the men dropt dead in the val- 
leys and half of the cattl 





The Voyage of Maeldune. 



the roof sank in on the hearth, 

and tht dwelling broke into 

flame ; 
the shouting of these wild birds 

ran into the hearts of my 

crew. 
Till they shouted along with the 

shouting and seized one another 

and slew; 
But I drew them the one from the 

other ; I saw that we could not 

And we left the dead to the birds and 
we sail'd with our wounded 
away. 



And we came to the Isle of Flowers : 
their breath met us out on the 
seas, 

Vox the Spring and the middle Sum- 
mer sat each on the lap of the 
breeze ; 

And the red passion-flower to the 
cliffs, and the dark-blue clema- 
tis, clung. 

And starr'd with a myriad blossom 
the long convolvulus hung; 

And the topmost spire of the mountain 
was lilies in lieu of snow. 

And the lilies like glaciers winded 
down, running out below 

Thro' the fire of the tulip and poppy, 
the blaze of gorse, and the 
blush 

Of millions of roses that sprang 
without leaf or a thorn from 
the bush ; 

And the whole isle-side flashing down 
from the peak without ever a 

Swept like a torrent of gems from the 

sky to the blue of the sea ; 
And we roll'd upon capes of crocus 

and vaunted our kith and our 

kin. 
And we wallow 'd in beds of lilies, and 

chanted the triumph of Finn, 
Till each like a golden image was 

pollen'd from head to feet 
And each was as dry as a cricket, with 

thirst in the middle-day heat. 





blossom, ai 
blossom, but never a fr. 
And we hated the Flowering Isle, as 
we hated the isle that was 

And we tore up the flowers by the 
million and flung them in bight 
and bay, 

And we left but a naked rock, and in 
anger we sail'd away. 



And we came to the Isle of Fruits : 

all round from the cliffs and 

the capes. 
Purple or amber, dangled a hundred 

fathom of grapes. 
And the warm melon lay like a little 

sun on the tawny sand. 
And the fig ran up from the beach 

and rioted over the land. 
And the mountain arose like a jewell'd 

throne thro' the fragrant air. 
Glowing with all-color'd plums and 

with golden masses of pear, 
And the crimson and scarlet of berries 

that flamed upon bine and 

But in every berry and fruit was the 

poisonous pleasure of wine ; 
And the peak of the mountain was 

apples, the hugest that ever 

were seen. 
And they prest, as they grew, on each 

other, with hardly a leaflet 

between. 
And all of them redder than rosiest 

health or than utterest shame, 
.•\ud setting, when Even descended, 

the very sunset aflame ; 
And we stay'd three days, and we 

gorged and we madden'd, till 

every one drew 
His sword on his fellow to slay him, 

and ever they struck and they 



And myself, I had 
and fought 





The Voyage of Maehlune. 



And we came to the Isle of Fire : we 
lured by the light trom 

afar. 
For the peak sent up one league of 

tire to the Northern Star ; 
Lured by the glare and the blare, but 

scarcely could stand upright, 
For the whole isle shudder'd and 

shook like a man in a mortal 

.iffright ; 
We were giddy besides with the 

fruits we had gorged, and so 

crazed that at last 
There were some leap'd into the fire ; 

and away we sail'd, and we 

past 
Over that undersea isle, where the 

water is clearer than air: 
Down we look'd : what a garden ! O 

bliss, what a Paradise there ! 
Towers of a happier time, low down 

in a rainbow deep 
Silent palaces, quiet fields of eternal 

sleep ! 
And three of the gentlest and best of 

my people, whate'er I could 

Plunged head down in the sea, and the 
Paradise trembled away. 

VIII. 
And we came to the Bounteous Isle, 

where the heavens lean low on 

the land. 
And ever at dawn from the cloud 

glitter'd o'er us a sunbright 

hand. 
Then it open'd and dropt at the side 

of each man, as he rose from 

his rest, 
Bread enough for his tieed till the 

laborless dav dipt under the 

West ; 
.\nd we wander'd about it and thro' 

it. O never was time so good ! 
And we sang of the triumphs of Finn, 

and the boast of our ancient 

blood, 
And we gazed at the wandering wave 

as we sat by the gurgle of 

springs. 





And we chanted the jongs of the 
Bards and the glories of fairy 
kings ; 

But at length we began to be weary, 
to sigh, and to stretch and 

Till we hated the Bounteous Isle and 

the sunbright hand of the dawn. 
For there was not an enemy near, but 

the whole green Isle was our 

own. 
And we took to playing at ball, and 

we took to throwing the stone. 
And we took to playing at battle, but 

that was a perilous play, 
For the passion of battle was in us, 

we slew and we sail'd awav. 



And we past to the Isle of Witches 

and heard their musical cry — 
' Come to us, O come, come ' in the 

stormy red of a sky 
Dashing the fires and the shadows of 

dawn on the beautiful shapes. 
For a wild witch naked as heaven 

stood on each of the loftiest 

capes. 
And a hundred ranged on the rock 

like white sea-birds in a row. 
And a hundred gamboll'd and 

pranced on the wrecks in the 

sand below, 
And a hundred splash'd from the 

ledges, and bosom'd the burst 

of the spray, 
But I knew we should fall on each 

other, and hastily sail'd away. 



And ' 



the 



came in an evil tu 
Isle of the Double Towers, 

One was of smooth-cut stone, one 
carved all over with flowers, 

But an earthquake always moved in 
the hollows under the dells. 

And they shock'd on each other and 
butted each other with clash- 
ing of bells, 

And the daws flew out of the Towers 
and jangled and wrangled in 





De Profutidls 



And the clash and boom of the bells 

rang into the heart and the 

brain, 
Till the passion of battle was on us, 

and all took sides with the 

Towers, 
There were some for the clean-cut 

stone, there were more for the 

carven flowers. 
And the wrathful thunder of God 

peal'd over us all the day. 
For the one half slew the other, and 

after we sail'd away. 



And we came to the Isle of a Saint 
who had sail'd with St. Bren- 
dan of yore. 

He had lived ever since on the Isle 
and his winters were fifteen 
score, 

And his voice was low as from other 
worlds, and his eyes were 

And his white hair sank to his heels 

and his white beard fell to his 

feet. 
And he spake to me, ' O Maeldune, 

let be this purpose of thine ! 
Remember the words of the Lord 

when he told us " Vengeance is 

,n)ine ! " 
His fathers have slain thy fathers in 

war or in single strife, 
Thy fathers have slain his fathers, 

each taken a life for a life. 
Thy father had slain his father, how 

long shall the murder last .' 
Go back to the Isle of Finn and suf- 
fer the Past to be Past.' 
And we kiss'd the fringe of his beard 

and we pray'd as we heard him 

pray. 
And the Holy man he assoil'd us, and 

sadly we sail'd away. 



And we came to the Isle we were 
blown from, and there on the 
shore was he, 

The man that had slain my father. I 
saw him and let him be. 





O weary was I of the travel, the 
trouble, the strife and the sin. 

When I landed again, with a tithe of 
my men, on the Isle of Finn. 



DE PROFUNDIS: 

THE TWO GREETINGS. 
I. 

Out of the deep, my child, out of the 

deep, 
Where all that was to be, in all that 

was, 
Whirl'd for a million seons thro' the 

Waste dawn of multitudinous-eddy- 
ing light- 
Out of the deep, my child, out of the 

deep. 
Thro' all this changing world of 

changeless law, 
And every phase of ever-heightening 

life. 
And nine long months of antenatal 

gloom. 
With this last moon, this crescent — 

her dark orb 
Touch'd with earth's light — thou 

comest, darling boy ; 
Our own ; a babe in lineament and 

limb 
Perfect, and prophet of the perfect 

Whose face and form are hers and 

mine in one, 
IndissoUibly married like our love; 
Live, and be happy in thyself, and 

serve 
This mortal race thy kin so well, that 



May bless thee 

young life 
Breaking with laughtei 

dark ; and may 
The fated channel where thy 



bless thee, O 
from the 





De Profundis. 



Along the years of haste and random 
youth 

Unshatter'd; then full-current thro' 
full man ; 

And last in kindly curves, with gen- 
tlest fall, 

By quiet fields, a slowly-dying power, 

To that last deep where we and thou 
are still. 



Out of the deep, my child, out of the 
deep, 

From that great deep, before our 
world begins. 

Whereon the Spirit of God moves as 

he will- 
Out of the deep, my child, out of the 
deep. 

From that true world within the 
world we see. 

Whereof our world is but the bound- 
ing shore — 

Out of the deep. Spirit, out of the 
deep. 

With this ninth moon, that sends the 
hidden sun 

Down yon dark sea, thou comest, dar- 
ling boy. 

II. 

For in the world, which is not ours, 

They said 
' Let us make man ' and that which 

should be man, 
From that one light no man can look 

Drew to this shore lit by the suns and 

moons 
And all the shadows. O dear Spirit 

half-lost 
In thine own shadow and this fleshly 





And banish'd 

pain 
Of this divisible-indivisible world 
Among the numerabli innumeral le 
Sun, sun, and sun, thro' finite-infin.te 

space 
In finite-infinite Time — our mortal 

veil 
And shatter'd phantom of that infinite 

One, 
Who made thee unconceivably Thy- 

Out of His whole World-self and all 

in all- 
Live thou ! and of the grain and husk, 

the grape 
And ivyberry, choose; and still 

depart 
From death to death thro' life and 

life, and find 
Nearer and ever nearer Him, who 

wrought 
Not Matter, nor the finite-infinite. 
But this main-miracle, that thou art 

thou. 
With power on thine own act and on 

the world. 



THE HUM.4N CRY. 



H.M.i-OWED be Th' 

iah !— 

Infinite Idealitv' 



We feel we are nothing — for all is 

Thou and in Thee; 
We feel we are something — that also 

has come from Thee ; 
We know we are nothing— but Thou 

wilt help us 
Hallowed be Thv name— Halleluiali 





BUT KEEP THE SECRET FOR YOUR L,IFE.." - /^ge < 





QUEEN MARY: 

A DRAMA. 

DRAMA T/S P^XSOA'.-E. 
Mary. 
AVk^- s/ Na^/iS and Sicily, n/terwa rds King of Spa 



Le Sm.:i I ^ .l;iss,uior. 

THO^,.^- ( . -...tcrl-ury. 

Sir NiCM'' \- Hi \ih, /' ■':.'•■■■. h.'t' r/ York : Lord Chancellor after Gardiner. 

Edward CorRTENAV, Earl of dItoh. 

Lord William Howard, afterwards Lord Howardy and Lord High Admiral. 

Lord Williams of Thame. Lord Paget. Lord Petke. 

Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester and Lord Chancellor. 

Edmund Bonner, Bishop of London. Thomas Thirlby, Bishop of Ely. 



Wv 



Sir Th 



Insurrectionary Leaders 



Lord Mayor of London, 
[• attending on Philip. 
Father Cole. 



The Duke 

The Coun- 

Peter Mai 

Villa Gar 

Captain B 

Anthony I 

Peters, Gentleman of Lord Hoivard. 

Roger, Servant ta Noailles. Will 

Steward of Household to the Princess Elizabet 

Old Nokes and Nokes. 

Marchioness of Exeter, Mother of Courtenay. 



.Adherents o/l^ya 



Father Bourne. 



Servant to Wyatt. 



Magdalen Da 



Ladies in i 



Maid of Honor to the Princess i 
' ' ■ two Country Wives. 

Lords and other Attendants, Member: 
Two Gentlemen, Aldermen, Citizer 
Gospellers, Marshalmen, etc. 



SCENE I.— Aldgate richly 

decorated. 

Crowd. Marshat.men. 

Marshalinan. Stand back, keep a 

clear lane ! When will her Majesty 

pass, 

now ; wherefore draw back your heads 




and your horns before I break 
and make what noise you wi] 
your tongues, so it be not ti 
Long live Queen Mary, the lawful 
legitimate daughter of Harry 
Eighth I Shout, knaves ! 

Citizens. Long live Queen Mai 
First Citizen. Tliat's a h ' 
legitimate ; what does it me; 
Second . Citizen. It mea 





Queen Mary. 



Third Citizen. Nay, it means true- 
boin. 

First Citizen. Why, didn't the Par- 
liament make her a bastard ? 

Second Citizen. No; it was the 
Ladv Elizabeth. 

third Citizen. That was after, 
man ; that was after. 

First Citizen. Then wliich is the 
bastard ? 

Second Citizen. Troth, they be both 
bastards by Act of Parliament and 
Council. 

Third Citizen. Ay, the Parliament 
can make every true-born man of us a 
bastard. Old Nokes, can't it make 
thee a bastard .' thou shouldst know, 
for thou art as white as three Christ- 
masses. 

Old Nokes {dreamily]. Who's a- 
passing? King Edward or King 
Richard ? 

Third Citizen. No, old Nokes. 

Old Nokes. It's Harry! 

Third Citizen. It's Queen Marv. 

Old Nokes. The blessed Mary's a- 
passing ! \Fiills on his knees. 

Nokes. Let father alone, my mas- 
ters ! he's past your questioning. 

Third Citizen. Answer thou for 
him, then ! thou'rt no such cockerel 
thyself, for thou was born i' the tail 
end of old Harry the Seventh. 

Nokes. Eh ! that was afore bastard: 
making began. I was born true 
man at five in the forenoon i' the tail 
of old Harry, and so they can't make 
me a bastard. 

Third Citizen. But if Parliament 
can make the Queen a bastard, why, 
it follows all the more that they can 
make thee one, who art fray'd i' the 
knees, and out at elbow, and bald o' 
the back, and bursten at the toes, and 
down at heels. 

Nokes. I was born of a true man 
and a ring'd wife, and I can't argue 



upon It 




and 



old woman 



burn upon it, that would we. 

Marshalman. What are you cack- 
ng of bastardy under the Queen's 
own nose? I'll have you flogg'd and 
burnt too, by the Rood I will. " 



ets. 




\The Procession fa 



I ne i^rotession jHisseSf iviiiiy 

and Elizabeth riding side hy 

side, and disappears under the 

gate. {Exeunt. 

Citizens. Long live Queen Mary! 

down with all traitors ! God save her 

Grace ; and death to Northi 

land I 



nber- 



Manent Two Gentlemen. 

First Gentleman. "By God's light a 
noble creature, right royal ! 

Second Gentleman. She looks 
comelier than ordinary to-day ; but to 
my mind the Lady Elizabeth is the 
more noble and royal. 

First Gentleman. I mean the Lady 
Elizabeth. Did you hear (I have a 
daughetr in her service who reported 
it) that she met the Queen at Wan- 
stead with five hundred horse, and the 
Queen (tho' some say they be much 
divided) took her hand, call'd her sweet 
sister, and kiss'd not her alone, but 
ay the ladies of her following. 

Second Gentleman. Ay, that was in 
her hour of joy; there will be plenty 
to sunder and unsister them again : 
this Gardiner for one, who is to be 
made Lord Chancellor, and will 
pounce like a wild beast out of his 
cage to worry Cranmer. 

First Gentle7nan. And furthermore, 
my daughter said that when there 
rose a talk of the late rebellion, she 
spoke even of Northumberland piti- 
fully, and of the good Lady Jane as a 
poor innocent child who had but 
obeyed her father ; and furthermore, 
she said that no one in her time 
should be burnt for heresy. 

Second Gentleman. Well, sir, I 
look for happy times. 

First Gentleman. There is but one 
thing against them. I know not if 
you know. 

Second Gentleman. I suppose you 





Queen Mary. 



touch upon the rumor that Charles, 
the master of the world, has offer'd 
her his son Philip, the Pope and the 
> but a rumor. 
Fust Gcnileman. She is going now 
to the Tower to loose the prisoners 
there, and among them Courtenay, to 
be made Earl of Devon, of royal 
blood, of splendid feature, whom the 
council and all her people wish her to 
marry. May it be so, for we are many 
of us' Catholics, but few Papists, and 
the Hot Gospellers will go mad upon 

Second Gentleman. Was she not 
betroth'd in her babyhood to the 
Great Emperor himself? 

First Gentleman. Ay, but he's too 
old. 

SeeonJ Gentleman. And again to 
her cousin Reginald Pole, now Car- 
dinal ; but I hear that he too is full of 
aches and broken before his day. 

First Gentleman. O, the Pope 
could dispense with his Cardinalate, 
and his achage, and his breakage, if 
that were all : will you not follow the 
procession ? 

Second Gentleman. No ; I have 



follow ; if I can get near enough I 
shall judge with my own eyes whether 
her Grace incline to this splendid scion 
of Plantagenet. [Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 
A Room in Lambeth Pal.\ce. 

Cranmer. To Strasburg, Antwerp, 

Frankfort, Zurich, Worms, 
Geneva, Basle — our Bishops from 

their sees 
Or fled, they say, or flying — Poinet, 

Barlow, 
Bale, Scory, Coverdale ; besides the 

Deans 
Of Christchurch, Durham, Exeter, and 

Wells— 
Ailmer and Bullingham. and hundreds 

more ; 





So they report : I shall be 
No : Hooper, Ridley, Lat: 

fly- 



Enter Peter Martyr. 
Peter Martyr. Fly, Cranmer ! 
were there nothing else, your 
name 

Stands first of those who sign'd the 
Letters Patent 

That gave her royal crown to Lady 
Jane. 
Crantner. Stand first it may, but it 
was written last : 

Those that are now her Privy Council, 
sign'd 

Before me : nay, the Judges had pro- 
nounced Lf 

That our young Edward^night be- 
queath the crown 

Of England, putting by his father's 
will. 

Yet I stood out, till Edward sent for 
me. 

The wan boy-king, with his fast-fad- 
ing eyes 

Fixt hard on mine, 1 " 
parent hand, 

Damp with the sweat of death, 
griping mine, 

Whisper'd me, if I loved him, n( 



trans- 



His Church of England to the Papal 

wolf 
And Mary ; then I could no more — I 

sign'd. 
Nay, for bare shame of inconsistency, 
She cannot pass her traitor council 

by. 

To make me headless. 

Peter Martyr. That might be for- 
given. 
I tell you, fly, my Lord. You do not 

The bodily presence in the Eucharist, 
Their water and perpetual sacrifice: 
Your creed will be your death. 

Cranmer. Step after step. 

Thro' many voices crying right and 



Ha 



left, 

I climb'd back into th 

church. 





Mary. 



ivithin the porch, and 

with me : 
Mv flight were such a scandal to the 

faith, 
The downfall of so many simple 

I dare not leave mv post. 

PcUr Martyr. ' But you divorced 
Queen Catharine and her father; 

hence, her hate 
Will burn till you are burn'd. 

Cranmer. I cannot help it. 

The Canonists and Schoolmen were 

with me. 
' Thou Shalt not wed thy brother's 

wife.'— 'Tis written, 
' They shall be childless.' True, Mary 

was born. 
But France would not accept her for a 

bride 
As being born from incest ; and this 

wrought 
Upon the king; and child by child, 

you know. 
Were momentarv sparkles out as 

quick 
Almost as kindled; and he brought 

his doubts 
And fears to me. Peter, I'll swear for 

him 
He Jid believe the bond incestuous. 
But wherefore am I trenching on the 

That should already have seen your 

steps a mile 
From me and Lambeth ? God be with 

you ! Go. 
Peter Martyr. Ah, but how fierce a 

letter you wrote against 
Their superstition when they slander'd 



For setting up a mass 

To please the Queen. 

Cranmer. It was 



at Canterbury 
a wheedling 



Set up the mass. 

Peter Martyr. I know it, my good 

Lord. ' 
But you so bubbled over with hot 

terms 
Of Satan, liars, blasphemy. Antichrist, 
She never will forgive you. Fly, my 

Lord, fly ! 




Cranmer. I wrote it, and God g; 

me power to burn ! 
Peter Martyr. They have given 

a safe conduct : for all that 
fare not stay. 1 fear, I fear, I 




: ; fare- 



you. 
Dear friend, for the last 
well, and fly. 
Cranmer. Fly' and farewell, and 
let me die the death. 

\Exit Peter Martyr. 

Enter OLD Servant. 

O, kind and gentle master, the 

Queen's Officers 
Are here in force to take you to the 
Tower. 
Cranmer. Ay, gentle friend, admit 
them. I will go. 
I thank mv God it is too late to fly. 
[Exeunt. 



SCENE III.— St. Paul's Cross. 

Father Bourne in the pulpit. A 
crmvd. Marchioness of Exeter, 

CoURTENAY. The SlEUR DE 

Noailles and his man ROGER in 
front of the stage. Hubbub. 

Noailles. Hast thou let fall those 
papers in the palace ? 

Ko:-er. Ay, sir. 

iVoailles. ' There will be no peace 
for Mary till Elizabeth lose her head.' 

Roger. Ay, sir. 

Noailles. And the other, ' Long 
live Elizabeth the Queen!' 

Roger. Ay, sir ; she needs must 
tread upon them. 

Noailles. Well. 

These beastly swine make such a 

grunting here, 
I cannot catch what Father Bourne is 
saying. 

Roger. Quiet a moment, my mas- 
ters ;' hear what the shaveling has to 
say for himself. 

Crowd. Hush— hear I 

Bourne. — and so this unhappy 
land, long divided i ' ' 
from the faith, wil 





Qiteen Mary. 



true fold, seeing that our gracious 
Virgin Queen hath 

Crmvd. No pope ! no pope ! 

Kogcr (to those about him, mimicking 
Bounn.). — hath sent for the holy 
lL;;ate of the holy father the Pope, 
Cardinal Pole, to give us all that holy 
absolution which 

First Citisc-ti. Old Bourne to the 



life 



Holy absolution ! 
Down with the 



Second Citizc 

holy Inqi 

Third Citizc 

Papist ! [//iibbub. 

Bourne. — and now that your good 
bishop, Bonner, who hath lain so long 
under bonds for the faith — [ffiikbiib. 
iVo.ii/les. Friend Roger, steal thou 
in among the crowd, 
And get the swine to shout Eliza- 
beth. 
You gray old Gospeller, sour as mid- 



Bea 



niter, 
ith hii 



R.X-r (goes). By the mass, old 
frii/iai. we'll have no pope here while 
the l,ady Elizabeth lives. 

Gospeller. Art thou of the true 
faith, fellow, that swearest by the 
mass ? 

Roger. Ay, that am I, new con- 
verted, but the old leaven sticks to 
my tongue yet. 

First Citizen. He says right ; by 
the mass we'll have no mass here. 

Voices of the crmad. Peace ! hear 
him ; let his own words damn the Pa- 
pist. From thine own mouth I judge 
thee — ^tear him down! 

Bourne. — and since our Gracious 
Queen, let me call her our second Vir- 
gin Mary, hath begun to re-edify the 

First Citizen. Virgin Mary I we'll 
have no virgins here — we'll have the 
Lady Elizabeth ! 

[Swords are drawn, a knife is 
hurled and sticks in the pulpit. 
The mob throng to the pulpit 

Marchioness of Exeter. Son Courte- 
nay, wilt thou see the holy 





Murdered before thy face ? 

and save him ! 
They love thee, and thou 

come to harm. 
Courtenay (in the fulfit). Shame 

shame, my masters ! are you 

English-born, 
And set yourselves by hundreds 

against one 1 
CroTud. A Courtenay I a Courte- 

[A train of Spanish servants crosses 
at the back of the stage. 
JVoailles. These birds of passage 
come before their time : 
Stave off the crowd upon the Span- 
iard there. 
Roger. My masters, yonder's fat- 
ter game for you 
Than this old gaping gurgoyle : look 

you there — 
The Prince of Spain coming to wed 

our Queen ! 
After him, boys! and pelt him from 
the city. 
[ They seize stones and follo'w the 
Spaniards. Exeunt on the 
other side Marchioness of Exe- 
ter and Attendants. 
A^oailles (to Roger). Stand from 
me. If Elizabeth lose her 
head- 
That makes for France. 
And if her people, anger'd thereupon, 
Arise against her and dethrone the 

Queen — 
That makes for France. 
And if I breed confusion anyway — 
That makes for France. 

Good-day, my Lord of Devon ; 
A bold heart yours to beard that rag- 
ing mob ! 
Courtenay. My mother said. Go 
up ; and up I went. 
I knew they would not do me any 

wrong. 
For I am mighty popular with them, 
Noailles. 
Noailles. You look'd a king. 
Courtenay. Why not ? I am 

king's blood. 
Noailles. And in the whirl of 
change may come to be one. 





Queen Mary. 



. Coui-tenay. Ah ! 
Noailles. But does your gracious 

Queen entreat you kinglike ? 
Courtenay. 'Fore God, I tliink she 

entreats me like a child. 
NMiilh-s. You've but a dull life in 
this maiden court, 
I fear, my Lord ? 

Courtenay. A life of nods and 

yawns. 
Noailles. So you would honor my 
poor hou.se to-night, 
We might enliven you. Divers 

honest fellows. 
The Duke of Suffolk lately freed from 

Sir Peter Carew and Sir Thomas 

Wyatt, 
Sir Thomas Stafford, and some more 
— we play. -|- 
Courtenay. At 'what .' 
Noailles. The Game o£ Chess. 
Omrt£nay.'X\i<t Game of Chess I 
I can play well, and I shall beat you 
there. 
N^oaillcs. Ay, but we play with 
Henry, King of France, 
And certain of his court. 
His Highness makes his moves across 

the Channel, 
We answer him with ours, and there 

are messengers 
That go between us. 

Courtenay. Why, such a game, sir, 

were whole years a playing. 
Noailles. Nay ; not so long I trust. 
That all deiicnds 
Upon the skill and swiftness of the 
players. 
Courtenay. The King is skilful at 

it? 
Noailles. Very, my Lord. 

Courtenay. And the stakes high .' 
Noailles. But not beyond your 

means. 
Courtenay. Well, I'm the first of 

players. I shall win. 
Noailles. With our advice and in 
npany. 
And so you well attend to the king's 

moves, 
Ithinkvou may, 

Courienav. When do vou meet ? 





A'oailles. To-night. 

Courtenay (asiiie). I will be there; 
the fellow's at his tricks- 
Deep— I shall fathom him. (Aloud.) 
Good morning, Noailles. 

[Exit Courtenay. 

A'oailles. Good-day, my Lord. 

strange game of chess I a King 

That with her own pawns plavs against 

a Queen, 
Whose play is all to find herself a 

King. 
Ay ; but this fine blue-blooded Courte- 

Too princely for a pawn. Call him a 

Knight, 
That, with an ass's, not a horse's 

head. 
Skips every way, from levity oj from 

fear. 
Well, we shall use him somehow, so 

that Gardiner 
And Simon Renard spy not out our 

game 
Too early. Roger, thinkest thou that 

anyone 
Suspected thee to be my man .' 

l<oi;er. Not one, sir. 

Noailles. No ! the disguise was per- 
fect. Let's away. {Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. 

London. A Room in the Palace. 

Elizabeth. Enter Couktknay. 

Courtenay. So yet am I, 
Unless my friends and mirrors lie to 

me, 
A goodlier-looking fellow than this 

Philip. 
Pah! 
The Queen is ill advised : 



Affrights me somewhat : to be such 
.\s Harry Bolingbroke hath a lure ii 




Good now, my I. 
your age, 




Queen Mary. 



And by your looks you are not worth 

the having, 
\'et by your crown you are. 

\Si;'hig Elizabeth. 

The Princess there.' 

If I tried her and la — she's amorous. 

Have we not heard of her in Edward's 



Her freaks and frolics v 

Lord Admiral ? 
I do believe she'd yield. 



■ith the late 

I should be 

A party in the state ; and then, who 
knows — 
Elizabeth. What are you musing 

on, mv Lord of Devon .' 
Courhiuiv. Has not the Queen— 
Elizahth. Done what, Sir .' 

Courtciiav. — made you follow 

The Lady Suffolk and the Lady Len- 
nox ? — 
You, 
The heir presumptive. 

Elizabeth. Why do you ask ? you 

Courtenay. You needs must bear 

it hardly. 
Elisabeth. No, indeed ! 

I am utterly submissive to the Queen. 
Cointenay. Well, I was musing 
upon that ; the Queen 
Is both my foe and yours : we should 
be friends. 
Elizabeth. My Lord, the hatred of 
another to us 
Is no true bond of friendship. 

Courtenay. Might it not 

Be the rough preface of some closer 

bond .' 

Elizabeth. My Lord, you late were 

loosed from out the Tower, 

Where, like a butterfly in a chrysalis. 

You spent your life; that broken, out 

you flutter 
Thro' the new world, go zigzag, now 

would settle 
Upon this flower, now that ; but all 
things here 

known ; you have solicited 
The Queen, and been rejected. 

Courtenay. Flower, she ! 

Half faded ! but you, cousin, are fresh 
and sweet 





As the first flower no bee has ever 
tried. 
Elizabeth. Are you the bee to try 
me.' why, but now 
I called you butterfly. 

Courtenay. You did me wrong, 
I love not to be called a butterfly : 
Why do you call me butterfly.' 
Elizabeth. Why do you go so gay 

then ? 
Courtenay. Velvet and gold. 

This dress was made me as the Earl 

of Devon 
To take my seat in ; looks it not right 
royal .' 
Elizabeth. So royal that the Queen 

forbad you wearing it. 
Courtenay. \ wear it then to spite 

her. 
Elizabeth. My Lord, my Lord ; 

I see you in the Tower again. Her 

Majesty 
Hears you affect the Prince — prelates 
kneel to you. — 
Courtenay. I am the noblest blood 
in Europe, Madam, 
A Courtenay of Devon, and her 
cousin. 
Elizabeth. She hears you make 
your boast that after all 
She means to wed you. Folly, my 
good Lord. 
Courtenay. How folly? a great 
party in the state 
Wills me to wed her. 

Elizabeth. Failing her, my Lord, 
Doth not as great a party in the state 
Will you to wed me .' 

Courtenay. Even so, fair lady. 

Elizabeth. You know to flatter 

ladies. 
Courtenay. Nay, I meant 

True matters of the heart. 

Elizabeth. My heart, my Lord, 

Is no great party in the state as yet. 
Courtenay. Great, said you ? nay, 
you shall be great. I love you, 
Lay my life in your hands. Can you 
be close .' 
Elizabeth. 





Queen Mary. 



The King of Fiance, Noailles the Ar 
bassador, 

5 of Suffolk and Sir Pet 



Sii- Thomas Wyatt. 



othe 



•lage 



Have sworn this Spanish 

shall not be. 
If Marv will not hear us— well— con- 
jecture — 
Were I in Devon with mv wedded 

bride, 
The people there so worship me — 

Your ear; 
You shall be Queen. 

EHzabclh. You speak tio low, 

my Lord ; 
I cannot hear you. 

Coiirtt-nav. I'll repeat it. 

ElizaMh. No ! 

Stand further off, or you may lose 
your head. 
Courtcnay. I have a head to lose 

for your sweet sake. 
Ehznhft'h. Have you, my Lord .' 
Best keep it for your own. 
Nay, pout not, cousin. 
Not many friends are mine, except in- 
deed 
Among the many. I believe you 



ul 
id 


well, 
that at oi 


ay continue mine 




Enter 


Mary, behind. 


Mi 


ry. Wh 


spering— leagued 



geth 
To bar me from my Philip. 

Conrtt-nav. Pray — consider — 

E!i:,!/h-t/i (seeing the Queen). 
Well, that's" a noble horse of 
yours, my Lord. 
I trust that he will carry you well to- 
day. 
And heal your headache. 

Courtenay. You are wild ; what 
headache .' 
Heartache, perchance; not head- 



Etizaheth [aside 





[Courtenay sees the Q 
exit. Exit Mary. 



Enter Lord William Howard, 



Hennard. Was that my Lord of 
Devon ? do not you 
Be seen in corners with my Lord of 

He hath fallen out of favor with the 

Queen. 
She fears the Lords may side with you 

and him 
Against her marriage ; therefore is he 

dangerous. 
And if this Prince of fluff and feather 

come 
To woo you, niece, he is dangerous 

eve'ryway. 
Elizabeth. Not very dangerous 

that way, my good uncle. 
Hmvard. But your own state is 

full of danger here. 
The disaffected, heretics, reformers. 
Look to you as the one to crown their 

ends. 
Mix not yourself with any plot I pray 



you ; 



if by chance you h 



of 



uch, 



any 
not to your 
founded with 



Speak not thereof- 
best friend. 

Lest vou should be 
'it. Still— 

Perinde ac cadaver— as the priest 
says, 

You know your Latin — quiet as a 
dead bodv. 

What was my Lord of Devon telling 

Elizabeth. Whether he told me 

anything or not, 
I follow your good counsel, gracious 

uncle. 
Quiet as a dead bodv. 

Hinvard. You do right well. 

I do not care to know; but this I 

charge you. 
Tell Courtenay nothing. The Lord 

Chancellor 
(I count it as a kind of virtue in 

him, • 
He hath not many), 




iiastiff dog 




Mary. 



Way love a puppy cur for no more 
reason 

Than that the twain have been tied 
up together, 

Thus Gardiner— for the two were fel- 
low-prisoners 

So many years in yon accursed 



Hath taken i 



this Co 



y. Look 
Gardiner 



He hath no fence 

questions him ; 
All oozes out ; yet him — because they 

know him 
The last White Rose, the last Plan- 

tagenet 
(Nay, there is Cardinal Pule, too), the 

people 
Claim as their natural leader — ay, 

some say. 
That you shall marrv him, make him 

King belike. ' 
Etizabetk. Do they say so, good 

uncle ? 
Hcnuanl. Ay, good niece ! 

You should be plain and open with 

me, niece. 
You should not plav upon me. 
Elhabeth. ' No, good uncle. 



Enter GARDINER. 
Gardiner. The Queen would see 

your Grace upon the moment. 
Elizabeth. Why, my lord Bishoj) ? 
Gardiner. I think she means to 
counsel your withdrawing 
To Ashridge, or some other country 
house. 
Elizalu-tk. Why, my lord Bishop.' 
Gardiner. I do but bring the mes- 
sage, know no more. 
Your Grace will hear her reasons 
from herself. 
Elizabeth. 'Tis mine own wish ful- 
fill'd before the word 
Was spoken, for in truth I had meant 

to cras'e 
Permission of her Highness to retire 
To Ashridge,a nd pursue my studies 



have the 





nd the Ou 



Is man's good F.i 

is yours. 
I left her with rich jewels in her 

hand. 
Whereof 'tis like enough she means 

to make 
A farewell present to your Grace. 

Elizabeth. My Lord, 

I have the jew^el of a loyal heart. 
Gardiner. I doubt it not, Madam, 

most loyal. \Bows Imv and exit. 
Henuard. ' See, 

This comes of parleying with my Lord 

of Devon. 
Well, well, you must obev; and I niv- 

self 
Believe it will be better for your wel- 
fare. 
Your time will come. 

Elizahetli. I think my time will 

come. 
Uncle, 

I am of sovereign nature, that I know, 
Not to be quell'd ; and I have felt 

within me 
Stirrings of some great doom when 

God's just hour 
Peals — but this fierce old Gardiner — 

his big baldness, . 
That irritable forelock which he 

rubs. 
His buzzard beak and deep-incavern'd 

eves 
Half fright me. 

Hcnaard. You've a bold heart ; 

keep it so. 
He cannot touch you save that you 

turn traitor ; 
And sb take heed I pray you — you are 

Who love that men should smile upon 

you, niece. 
They'd smile you into treason — some 

of them. 
Elizabeth. I spy the rock beneatli 

the smiling sea. 
But if this Philip, the proud Catholi- 

.A.nd this bald priest, and she that 

hates me, seek 
In that lone house, to practise i 

life. 
By poison, fire, shot, stab — 




Howard. They will not, niece. 

is the fleet and all the power at 



Or will be in a moment. If they 

dared 
To harm vou, I would blow this 

Philip and all 
Your trouble to the dogstar and the 

devil. 
Elizabeth. To the Pleiads, uncle ; 

they have lost a sister. 
Howard. But why say that .' what 

have you done to lose her ? 
Come, come, I will go with you to the 

Queen. \Exeiint. 



SCENE V. 
A Room in the Palace. 



Mary {kissing the miniature). Most 
goodly. Kinglike and an Em- 
peror's son, — 
A king to be, — is he not noble, girl .' 
Alice. Goodly enough, your Grace, 
and yet, methinks, 
I have seen goodlier. 

Mary. Av ; some wa.\en doll 



But my good mother came (God rest 
her soul) 

Of Spain, and I am Spanish in my- 
self. 

And in my likings. 

Alice. By your Grace's leave 

Your royal mother came of Spain, but 
took 

To the English red and white. Your 
royal father 

(For so they say) was all pure lily and 
rose 

In his youth, and like a lady. 

Mary. O, just God ! 

Sweet mother, you had time and cause 
enough 

To sicken of his lilies and his roses. 

Cast off, betray'd, defamed, divorced, 





traitor past 
him. 



Mary. 



And then the Kinj 

forgiveness. 
The false archbishop fawning 

married 
The mother of Elizabeth— a h 
Ev'n as she is ; but God hath 



To take such order with all heretics 
That it shall be, before I die, as tho' 
My father and my brother had not 

lived. 
What wast thou saying of this Lady 

Jane, 
Now in the Tower .' 
Alice. Why, Madam, she was 
■ passing 
Some chapel down in Essex, and with 

her 
Lady Anne Wharton, and the Lady 

Anne 
Bow'd to the Pyx ; but Lady Jane 

stood up 
Stiff as the very backbone of heresy. 
And wherefore bow ye not, says Lady 

Anne, 
To him within there who made 

Heaven and Earth .' 
I cannot, and I dare not, tell your 

Grace y^' 

What Lady Jane replied. 

Mary. But I will have it. 

Alice. She said — pray pardon me, 

and pity her — 
She hath harken'd evil counsel — ah ! 

she said. 
The baker made him. 

Mary. Monstrous ! blasphemous ! 
She ought to burn. Hence, thou 

(E.xit Alice). No— being trai- 
tor 
Her head will fall : shall it ? she is 

but a child. 
We do not kill the child for doing 

that 
His father whipt him into doing — a 

head 
So full of grace and bennty! would 

that mine 
Were half as gracious ! <), my lord 

to be. 
My love, for thy sake only. 
I am eleven years older than he is. 
Bui will he care for that .' 





Queen Mary. 



No, by the holy Virgin, being noble, 
Kut love me only : then the bastard 

sprout, 
My sister, is far fairer than myself. 
Will he be drawn to her? 
No, being of the true faith with my- 
self. 
Paget is for him — for to wed with 

Spain 
Would treble England — Gardiner is 

against him ; 
The Council, people. Parliament 

against him ; 
But I will have him ! My hard father 

hated ni.; ; 
My brother rather hated me than 

loved ; 
My sister cowers and hates me. Holy 

Virgin, 
Plead with thy blessed Son ; grant me 

my prayer : 
Give me my Philip ; and we two will 

lead 
The living waters of the Faith 

again 
Back thro' their widow'd channel 

here, and watch 
The parch'd banks rolling incense, as 

of old, 
To heaven, and kindled with the 

palms of Christ ! 



Enter UsHER. 
Who waits, sir ? 

Usher. Madam, the Lord Chan- 
cellor. 
Mary. Bid him come in. {Enter 
Gardiner.) Good morning, 
my good Lord. \_Exit Usher. 
Gardiner. That every morning of 
your Majesty 
May be most good, is every morning's 

prayer 
Of your most loyal subject, Stephen 
Gardiner. 
Mary. Come you to tell me this, 

my Lor<;l .' 
Gardiner. And more. 
Your people have begun to learn your 

worth. 
Vour pious wish to pay King Ed- 
ward's debts. 





Your lavish household curb'd, and 

the remission 
Of half that subsidy levied on the 

people, 
Make all tongues praise and all hearts 

beat for you. 
I'd have you yet more loved : the 

realm is poor. 
The exchequer at neap-tide : we 

might withdraw 
Part of our garrison at Calais. 

Mary. Calais I 

Our one point on the main, the gate 

of France ! 
I am Queen of England ; take mine 

But do not'lose me Calais. 

Gardnu-r. Do not fear it. 

Of that hereafter. I say your Grace 
is loved. 

That I may keep you thus, who am 
your friend 

And ever faithful counsellor, might I 
speak ? 
Marv. I can forespeak your speak- 
ing. Would I marry 

Prince Philip, if all England hate 
him.' That is 

Your question, and I front it with 
another : 

Is it England, or a party ? Now, your 

Gardn'u-r. 'My answer is, I wear 
beneath my dress 

A shirt of mail : my house hath been 
assaulted. 

And when I walk abroad, the popu- 
lace. 

With fingers pointed like so many 
daggesr. 

Stab me in fancy, hissing Spain and 
Philip ; 

And when I sleep, a hundred men-at- 
arms 

Guard my poor dreams for England. 
Men would murder me. 

Because they think me favorer of this 
marriage. 
Mary. And that were hard upon 

you, my Lord Chancellor. 
Gardiner. But our young Earl of 



Dev 



Mary. 




Earl of Devon 




Queen Mar 



I freed him from the Tower, placed 

hira at Court ; 
I made him Earl of Devon, and — the 

fool- 
He wrecks his health and wealth on 

courtesans, 
And rolls hhnself in carrion like a 

dog. 
Gardiner. More like a school-boy 

that hath broken bounds, 
Sickening himself with sweets. 

Mary. I will not hear of him. 

Good, then, they will revolt : but I 

And shall control them. 

Garduu-r. I will help vou. Madam, 
Even to the utmost. All the church 

is grateful. 
You have ousted the mock priest, re- 

pulpited 
The shepherd of St. Peter, raised the 

rood again, 
And brought us back the mass. I am 

all thanks 
To God and to your Grace : yet I 

know well. 
Your people, and I go with them so 

far. 
Will brook nor Pope nor .Spaniard 

here to play 
The tyrant, or in commonwealth or 

church. 
Mary (shmoing the picture]. Is this 

the face of one who plays the 

tyrant f 
Peruse it ; is it not goodly, ay, and 

gentle? 
Gardiner. Madam, methinks a 

cold face and a haughty. 
And when vour Highness talks of 



Ay. 



jld his 



take 



hi- -triiiiiotlier cif a score of so 
Prince is known in Spain, 
Flanders, ha! 
For Philip— 

Mary. You offend us ; you n 





You see thro' warping glasst-.. 

Gardiner. If your M.lje.■^ty — 

Mary. I have sworn upon tiiL 
body and blood of Chri.-.t 
I'll none but Philip. 

Gardiner. Hath your Grace so 

sworn ? 
Mary. Ay, Simon Renard knows 
it. 



Gardiner. 






News to me ! 


It then rem. 


ins for 


you 


poor Gardi- 


ner. 








So vou still 


care to 


trns 


; him some- 


what 


ess 






Than Simon 


Renard 


to 


compose the 


event 








In some sue 


1 form a 


slea 


St may harm 



Grace. 

Mary. I'll have the scandal 
sounded to the mud. 
I know it a scandal. 

Gardiner All my hope is now 

It may be found a scandal. 

Mary. You offend us. 

Gardiner {aside). These princes 

are like children, must be 

physick'd, 

The bitter in the sweet. I have lost 

mine office. 
It mav be. thro' mine honesty, like a 
■ fool. [Exit. 



Enter Usher. 
Mary. Who waits? 
Usher. The Ambassador from 

France, yonr Grace. 
Mary (sits down). Bid him come 
in. Good movnini;, Sir de 
Noailles. {Exit Usher. 

JVoai/e/s (eriterini:). A happv morn- 
ing to your Majesty. ' 
JJfary. And I should some tmie 
have a happy morning; 
I have had none yet. What says the 
King your master? 
Noailles. Madam, my master hears 
with much alarm. 
That you may marry Philip, Princ 

Spain — 
Foreseeing, with whate 





Queen Alary. 



Fhilip be the 



Of England, and at war with liim, 

your Grace 
And kingdom will be suck'd into the 

Ay, tho' you long for peace ; where- 
fore, my master. 
If but to prove your Majesty's good- 
Would fain have some fresh treaty 



betwe 



you. 



Miiiy. Why some fresh treaty i 

wherefore should I do it ? 

Sir, if we marry, we shall still main 



All former treaties with his Majesty. 
Our royal word for that ! and your 

good master, 
Pray God he do not be the first to 

break them, 
Must be content with that ; and so, 

farewell. 
jVoni/ltS [going, retttrns). I w'ould 

your answer had been other, 

Madam, 
For I foresee dark days. 

Mary. And so do I, sir ; 

Your master works against me in the 

dark. 
I do believe he holp Northumberland 
Against me. 
NoniUes. Nay, pure phantasy, your 

Grace. 
Why should he move against you ? 

Marx. Will you hear why .' 

Mary "of Scotland,— for I have not 

own'd 
My sister, and I will not,— after 

me 
Is heir of England; and my roval 

father. 
To make the crown of Scotland one 

with ours, 
Had mark'd her for my brother Ed- 
ward's bride ; 
Ay, but your king stole her a babe 

from Scotland 
In order to betroth her to your Dan- 

phin. 
See then : 
Mary of Scotland, married to your 

Dauphin, 




Would make our England, Fr 

Mary of England, joining hands with 

Spain, 
Would be too strong for France. 
Yea, were there issue born to her, 

Spain and we. 
One crown, might rule the world. 

There lies your fear. 
That is your drift. You play at hide 

and seek. 
Show me your faces ! 

Noailles. Madam, I am amazed : 
French, I must needs wish all good 

things for France. 
That must be pardon'd me ; but I 

Your Grace's policy hath a farther 

flight 
Than mine into the future. We but 

seek 
Some settled ground for peace to 
stand upon. 
Mary. Well, we will leave all this, 
sir, to our council. 
Have you seen Philip ever.' 
Noailles. Only once. 

Mary. Is this like Philip .? 
Noailles. Ay, but nobler-look- 
ing. 
Mary. Hath he the large ability 

of the Emperor.' 
Noailles. No, surely. 
Mary. I can make allowance for 
thee. 
Thou speakest of the enemy of thy 
king. 
Noailles. Make no allowance for 
the naked truth. 
He is every way a lesser man than 

Charles; 
Stone-hard, ice-cold — no dash of dar- 
ing in him. 
Mary. If cold, his life is pure. 
Noailles. Why (stniliiig), no, in- 
deed. 
Mary. Sayst thou ? 
Noailles. A very 
deed [smiling). 
Marv. Your audience i 

sir. {Exit Noailles 

You cannot 
Learn a man's nature from his nat 





Queeti Mary. 



Enter USHER. 
The Ambassador of Spain, 



Grace. 



lEx 



Enh-r Simon Rei^ard. 
Mary [rising to meet lum). Thou 

art ever welcome, Simon Re- 

nard. Hast thou 
Brought me the letter which thine 

Emperor promised 
Long since, a formal offer of the hand 
Of Philip ? 

Renarcl. Nay, your Grace, it hath 

not reach'd me. 
I know not wherefore — some mis- 
chance of flood. 
And broken bridge, or spavin'd horse, 

or wave 
And wind at their old battle : he 

must have written. 
Mary. But Philip never writes me 

one poor word. 
Which in his absence had been all 



alth. 



Str; 



Renard. Yet I know the 
Prince, 
So your king-parliament suffer him to 

land, 
Yearns to set foot upon your island 
shore. 
Mary. God change the pebble 
which his kingly foot 
First presses into some more costly 

Than ever blinded eye. I'll have one 

mark it 
And bring it me. I'll have it bur- 

nish'd firelike ; 
I'll set it round with gold, with pearl, 

with diamond. 
Let the great angel of the church 

come with him ; 
Stand on the deck and spread his 

wings for sail ! 
God lay the waves and strow the 

storms at sea. 
And here at land among the people I 

O Renard, 
I am much beset, I am almost in de- 





Paget is ours. Gardiner percha 

But for our heretic Parliament — 

Renard. O Madam, 

You fly your thoughts like kites. My 

master, Charles, 
Bad you go softly with your heretics 

here. 
Until your throne had ceased to 

tremble. Then 
Spit them like larks for aught I care. 

Besides, 
When Henry broke the carcase of 

your church 
To pieces, there were many wolves 

among you 
Who dragg'd the scatter'd limbs into 

their den. 
The Pope would have you make them 

render these ; 
So would your cousin, Cardinal Pole ; 

ill counsel ! 
These let them keep at present ; stir 

not yet 
This matter of the Church lands. At 

his coming 
Your star will rise. 

Mary. My star ! a baleful one. 

I see but the black night, and hear the 

wolf. 
What star ? 

Renard. Your star will be your 

princelv son. 
Heir of this England and the Nether- 
lands ! 
And if your wolf the while should 

howl for more, 
We'll dust him from a bag of Spanish 

gold. 
I do believe, I have dusted some al- 
ready. 
That, soon or late, your Parliament is 

Mary. Why do they talk so foully 
of your Prince, 
Renard ? 

Renard. The lot of Princes. To 
sit high 
Is to be lied about. 

Mary. They call him cold. 

Haughty, ay, worse. 

Renard. Why, doubtless, Philip 
shows 






















1 


/ST^ 1 M ? 1 l-4^il> 




5 


SCENE V. Queen 


Mary. 227 




Some of the bearing of your blue 


Why, when you put Northumberland 






blood— still 


to death. 


, 








All within measure— nay, it well be- 


The sentence having past upon them 








tAr) comes him. 


all, OU 






Afary. Hath he the large ability of 


Spared you the Duke of Suffolk, 






his father? 


Guildford Dudley, 






Reiiard. Nav, some believe that 


Ev'n that young girl who dared to 






he will g8 beyond him. 


wear your crown .' 






M.uy. Is this like him .' 


Maiy. Dared .' nay, not so ; the 






Reiiard. Ay, somewhat ; but your 


child obev'd her father. 






Philip 


Spite of her tears her father forced it 






Is the most princelike Prince beneath 


on her. 






the sun. 


Ratard. Good Madam, when the 






This is a daub to Philip. 


Roman wish'd to reign. 






Mary. Of a pure life .' 


He slew not him alone who wore the 






Reuard. As an angel among 


purple. 






angels. Yea, by Heaven, 


But his assessor in the throne, per- 






The text— Your Highness knows it, 


chance 






' Whosoever 


A child more innocent than Ladv 






Looketh after a woman,' would not 


Jane. 
Mary. I am English Queen, not 






The Prince of Spain. You are happy 


Roman Emperor. 






in him there. 


Renard. Yet too much mercy is a 






Chaste as your Grace ! 


want of mercy. 






Mary. I am happy in him there. 


And wastes more life. Stamp out the 






Retmrd. And would be altogether 


fire, or this 






happy, Madam, 


Will smoulder and re-flame, and burn 






So that your sister were but look'd to 


the throne 






closer. 


Where you should sit with Philip : he 






You have sent her from the court, 


will not come 






but then she goes. 


Till she be gone. 






I warrant, not to hear the nightin- 


Mary. Indeed, if that were true— 






gales, 


For Philip comes, one hand in mine. 






But hatch you some new treason in 


and one 






the woods. 


Steadying the tremulous pillars of the 






Mary. We have our spies abroad 


Church- 






to catch her tripping. 


But no, no, no. Farewell. I am 






And then if caught, to the tower. 


somewhat faint 






Renard. The Tower 1 the block ! 


With our long talk. Tho' Queen, I 






The word has turn'd vour Highness 


am not Queen 






pale; the thing' 


Of mine own heart, which every now 






Was no such scarecrow in your 


and then 






father's time. 


Beats me half dead: yet stay, this 






I have heard, the tongue yet quiver'd 


golden chain — 






with the jest 


My father on a birthday gave it 






When the head leapt— so common ! I 


me. 






do think 


And I have broken with mv father- 






"Y* To save your crown that it must come 


take CY^ 






J 


to this. 


And wear it as memorial of a morn- J 1 








Mary. No, Renard ; it must 


ing • 1 








never come to this. 


Which found me full of foolish doubts. 








Refiard. Not vet ; but your old 


and leaves me 






\ 


Traitors of the Tower— 

K . . . 


As hopeful. 






1^-4 ^S 


i \ 1 ^s^ 












Queen Mary. 



Rcmird (asiJe). Whew— the folly 

of all follies 
Is to be love-sick for a shadow. 

(Aloud) Madam, 
This chains me to your service, not 

with gold, 
iJiit dearest links of love. Farewell, 

and trust me, 
Philip is yours. [Ex,t 

.1/(7)1'. Mine— but not yet all 



Etittr Usher. 
Usher. Your Council is in Session, 

please your Majesty. 
Maty. Sir, let them sit. I must 

have time to breathe. 
No, say I come. (Exit Usher.) I 

won by boldness once. 
The Emperor counsell'd me to fly to 

Flanders. 
I would not ; but a hundred miles I 

rode, 
Sent out mv letters, call'd my friends 

together. 
Struck home and won. 
.\nd when the Council would not 

crown me — thought 
To bind me first by oaths I could not 

keep, 
.•\nd keep with Christ and conscience 

— was it boldness 
Or weakness that won there.' when I, 

their Queen, 
Cast myself down upon my knees 

before them, 
.■\nd those hard men brake into 

woman-tears, 
Ev'n Gardiner, all amazed, and in that 

Gave me my Crown. 

Enter ALICE. 
Girl ; hast thou ever heard 
Slanders against Prince Philip in our 
Court .' 
Alice. What slanders ? I, your 

Grace; no, never. 

.Mary. Nothing .' 

Alice. Never, your Grace. 

.Mary. See that you neither hear 

them nor repeat ! 





Alice (aside). Good Lord I bul 
have heard a thousand such. 
Ay, and repeated them as often — 

Why comes that old fo.\-Fleming back 
again .' 

Enter Rf.N.\RD. 

Reuard. Madam, I scarce had left 

your Grace's presence 

Before I chanced upon the messenger 

Who brings that letter which we 

waited for — 
The formal offer of Prince Philip's 

hand. 
It craves an instant answer. Ay or 
No. 
Mary. An instant Ay or No! the 
Council sits. 
Give it me quick. 

Alice (stepping before her). Your 

Highness is all trembling. 
Marv. Make way. 

{E.xit into the Conncil Chamber. 
Alice. O, Master Renard, Master 
Renard, 
If you have falsely painted your fine 

Prince ; 
Praised, where you should have 

blamed him, I i)ray God 
No woman ever love you. Master 

Renard. 
It breaks my heart to hear her moan 

at night 
As tho' the nightmare never left her 
bed. 
Renard. My pretty maiden, tell 
me, did you ever 
Sigh for a beard .' 
Alice. That's not a pretty question. 
Renard. Not jirettily put ? I 
mean, my pretty maiden, 
A pretty man for such a pretty 



Alu 



My Lord of Devon 
pretty man. 
hate him.' Well, but if I have, 

then .' 
Renard. Then, pretty i 

should know that whether 
. wind be warm or cold, it serves 
fan 





Jii-nnrd. Peace, pretty maiden. 

I hear them stirring in the Council 
Chamber. 

Lord Paget's ' Ay ' is sure — who else } 
and yet. 

They are all too much at odds to close 
at once 

In one full-throated No ! Her High- 
ness comes. 

Enter M..\KY. 

Alicf. How deathly pale ! — a chair, 
your Highness.' 

\Briiii;iicg oM to tJie Queen. 
Reiiard. Madam, 

The Council .> 

Mary. Ay ! My Philip is all 

\Sniks into c/iiur, half faintiusr. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I.— Alington Castle. 

Sir Thomas Wvatt. I do not hear 

from Carew or the Duke 

Of Suffolk, and till then I should not 

The Duke hath gone to Leicester; 

Carew stirs 
In Devon : that fine porcelain Courte- 

nay, 
Save that he fears he might be crack'd 

in using, 
(I have known a semi-madman in mv 

time 
.So fancy-ridd'n) should be in Devon 




Enter WiLLlAM. 
abroad, William ? 



]Vyatl. Ay, for the Saints are 

come to reign again, 
Most like it is a Saint's-day. There's 

no call 
As yet for me; so in this pause, 

before 
The mine be fired, it were a pious 

work 
To string my father's sonnets, left 

about 
Like loosely-scatter'd jewels, in fair 

order. 
And head them with a lamer rhyme of 

mine. 
To grace his memory. 

IViUtavi. Ay, why'not. Sir Thomas .' 
He was a fine courtier, he ; Queen 
Anne loved him. All the women 
loved him. I loved him ; I was in 
Spain with him. I couldn't eat in 
Spain, I couldn't sleep in Spain. I 
hate Spain, Sir Thomas. 

Wyatt. But thou could'st drink in 

Sjjaiu if I remember. 
WiHiiun. Sir Thomas, we may 
grant the wine. Old Sir Thomas 
always granted the wine. 

Wyatt. Hand me the casket with 

my father's sonnets. 

WiUiam. Ay — sonnets — a fine 

courtier of the old Court, old Sir 

Thomas. \^Exit. 

Wyatt. Courtier of many courts, he 

loved the more 
His own gray towers, plain life and 

letter'd peace. 
To read and rhyme in solitary fields, 
The lark above, the nightingale be- 
low. 
And answer them in 

begets 
Not half his likenes: 





Re-enter William. 
William. There is news, there is 
news, and no call for sonnet-sorting 
now, nor for sonnet-making either, but 
ten thousand men on Penenden Heath 
all calling after your worship, and your 
worship's name heard into Maidstone 
Market, and your worship the first man 
in Kent and Christendom, for the 
Queen's down, and the world's up, 
and your worship a-top of it. 

IVyalt. Inverted /Esop — mountain 
out of mouse. 
Say for ten thousand ten — and pot- 
house knaves, 
Brain-dizzied with a drauglit of morn- 
ing ale. 

Enter ANTONY KNYVErr. 
William. Here's Antony Knyvett. 
Knyvett. Look you, Master Wyatt, 
Tear up that woman's work there. 

Wyatt. No ; not these. 

Dumb children of my father, that will 

speak 
When I and thou and all rebellions 

Dead bodies without voice. Song 

flies you know 
For ages. 
Knyvett. Tut, your sonnet's a fly- 
' ing ant, 
Wing'd for a moment. 

Wyatt. Well, for mine own work. 




£« 



[ Tearing the paper. 
; pieces at your feet; 



It lies there 

For all that I can carry it in my head. 
Knyvett. If you can carry your 

head upon your shoulders. 
Wyatt. I fear you come to carry it 

off my shoulders. 
And sonnet-making's safer. 

A'nyvett. Why, good Lord, 

Write you as many sonnets as you 

will. 
Ay, but not now ; what, have you eyes, 

ears, brains? 
This Philip and the black-faced 

swarms of Spain, 
The hardest, cruellest people in the 

world, 
Couie locusting upon us, eat us up, 




Mary. 



Confiscate lands, goods, money — 

Wyatt, Wyatt, 
Wake, or the stout old island will be- 

A rotten limb of Spain. They roar 

for you 
On Penenden Heath, a thousand of 

them — more — \ 

All arm'd, waiting a leader ;\there's 

no glory 
Like his who saves his country and 

you sit 
Sing-songing here ; but, if I'm any 

judge, 
By God, you are as poor a poet, 

Wyatt, 
a good soldier. 
■^, Wyatt. You as poor a critic 

As an honest friend : you stroke me 

on one cheek. 
Buffet the other.- Come, you bluster, 

Antony ! 
You know 1 know all this. I must 

not move 
Until I hear from Carew and the 

Duke. 
I fear the mine is fired before the 



A'nyvett (showing a paper). But 
here's some Hebrew. Faith, 
I half forgot it. 
Look ; can you make it English ? A 

strange youth 
Suddenly thrust it on me, whisper'd, 

' Wyatt,' 
And whisking round a corner, show'd 

his back 
Before I read his face. 

Wyatt. Ha ! Courtenay's cipher. 

[Reads. 
' Sir Peter Carew fled to France : it 
is thought the Duke will be taken. I 
am with you still ; but, for appearance 
sake, stay with the Queen. Gardiner 
knows, but the Council are all at odds, 
and the Queen hath no force for re- 
Move, if you move, at 



Is Peter Carew fled .' Is the Duke 

taken .' 
Down scabbard, and out sword ! and 

let Rebellion 





Queen Mary. 



ill throne rock, and crown f;L 
No ; not that ; 
will teach Queen Mary how i 



Who are those that shout below 
there ? 
Kiiyvctt. Why, some fifty 

That follow'd me from Penenden 

}ieath in hope 
To hear you speak. 

M'vatt. Open the window, Knvvett ; 
The mine is tired, and I will speak to 
them. 

Men of Kent ; England of England; 
you that have kept your old customs 
upright, while all the rest of England 
bow'd theirs to the Norman, the cause 
that hath brought us together is not 
the cause of a county or a shire, but 
of this England, in whose crown our 
Kent is the fairest jewel. Philip shall 
not wed Mary ; and ye have called me 
to be your leader. I know .Spain. 
I have been there with my father ; I 
have seen them in their own land ; 
have marked the haughtiness of their 
nobles ; the cruelty of their priests. 
If this man marry our Queen, how- 
ever the Council and the Commons 
may fence round his power with re- 
striction, he will be King, King of 
England, my masters ; and the Queen, 
and the laws, and the people, his 
slaves. What.' shall 
on the throne and in I 
Spain in the pi 
bench ; Spain ir 
of state ; Spain m our snips, 
forts, in our houses, in our beds } 

Crmod. No ! no I no Spain ! 

William. No Spain in our beds 
— that were worse than all. I have 
been there with old Sir Thomas, and 
the beds I know. I hate Spain. 

A Pt-asanf. But, Sir Thomas, must 
we levy war against the Queen's 
Gt 

Wyntt. No, my friend ; war for 
the Queen's Grace — to save her from 
herself and Philip— war against Spain. 
And think not we shall be alone- 
thousands will flock to us. The Coun- 



have Spam 
J in the parliament ; 
pit and on the law- 
all the great offices 





cil, the Court itself, is on our side. 
The Lord Chancellor himself is on our 
side. The King of France is with us ; 
the King of Denmark is with us ; the 
world is with us— war against Spain ! 
And if we move not now, yet it will be 
known that we have moved ; and if 
Philip come to be King, 0,my God! 
the rope, the rack, the thumbscrew, 
the stake, the fire. If we move not 
now, Spain moves, bribes our nobles 
with her gold, and creeps, creeps 
snake-like about our legs till we can- 
not move at all ; and ye know, my 
masters, that wherever Spain hath 
ruled she hath wither'd all beneath 
her. Look at the New World — a 
paradise made hell ; the red man, that 
good helpless creature, starved, 
maim'd, flogg'd, flay'd, burn'd, boil'd, 
buried alive, worried by dogs ; and 
here, nearer home, the Netherlands, 
Sicily, Naples, Lombardy. I say no 
more — only this, their lot is yours. 
Forward to London with me ! for- 
ward to London I If ye love your 
liberties or your skins, forward to 
London ! 

Crowd. Forward to London ! A 
Wyatt ! a Wyatt I 

Wyntt. But first to Rochester, to 
take the guns 
From out the vessels lying in the 

Then on. 

A Peasant. Ay, but I fear we be 

too few. Sir Thomas. 
Wyatt. Not many yet. The world 
as yet, my friend. 
Is not half-waked ; but every parish 

Shall clang and clash alarum as we 

pass. 
And pour along the land, and swoU'n 

and fed 
With indraughts and side-currents, in 

full force 
Roll upon London. 

Croutd. A Wyatt I a Wyatt 1 For- 
ward ! 
Knyvett. Wyatt, shall we procla 

Elizabeth ? 
Wyatt. I'll think upon it, Knyvett. 





Knyvett. Or Lady Jane ? 

IVyatt. No, poor soul ; no. 
Ah, gray old castle of Alington, 

green field 
Beside the brimming Medway, it may 

That I shall never look upon you 

Knyvett. Come, now, you're sonnet- 
ting again. 
Wyatt. Not I. 

I'll have my head set higher in the 

state ; 
Or— if the Lord God will it— on the 
stake. \^Excunt. 

SCENE IL— Guildhall. 

Sir Thomas White (The Lord 
Mayor), Lord William Howard, 



White. I trust the Queen comes 

hither with her guards. 
Hcnoard. Ay, all in arms. 

\SeveraJ of the citizens move hast- 
ily out of the hall. 
Why do they hurry out there ? 
White. My Lord, cut out the rot- 
ten from your apple, 
Your apple eats the better. Let 

them go. 
They go like those old Pharisees in 

John 
Convicted by their conscience, arrant 

cowards, 
Or tamperers with that treason out of 

Kent. 
When will her Grace be here .' 

Ho^uhird. In some few minutes. 

She will address your guilds and com- 
panies. 
I have striven in vain to raise a man 

for her. 
But help her in this exigency, make 
Yoiir city loyal, and be the mightiest 

man 
This day in Engla.nd. 

White. I am Thomas White. 

Few things have fail'd to which I set 





I do my most and best. 

Ho'w'iid. You know that after 

The Captain Krelt, who went vviih 

your train bands 
To fight with Wyatt, had gone over 

to him 
With all his men, the Queen in that 

distress 
Sent Cornwallis and Hasi 



igs to the 
about her 



Feigning to treat wit 

marriage — 
Know too what Wyatt said. 

White. He'd sooner be. 

While this same marriage question 

was being argued. 
Trusted than trust — the scoundrel — 

and demanded 
Possession of her person and the 
Tower. 
Himiarii. And four of her poor 
Council too, my Lord, 
As hostages. 

White. I know it. What do and 
Say your Council at this hour.'' 

Howard. I will trust you. 

We fiing ourselves on you, my Lord. 

The Council, 
The Parliament as well, are troubled 



of the fen they 
ngs on 



And yet like wal 

know not 
Which way to flow. 

her address. 
And upon you. Lord Mavor. 

White. How look'd the city 

When now you past it .' Quiet t 

Hoivard. Like our Council, 

Your city is divided. As we past. 
Some hail'd, some hiss'd us. There 

were citizens 
Stood each before his shut-up booth, 

and look'd 
As grim and grave as from a funeral. 
And here a knot of ruffians all in 

rags. 
With execrating execrable eyes. 
Glared at the citize 

young mother, 
Her face on flame, 

blov\'n back. 
She shrilling ' Wyatt,' while the boy 

she held 




Queen Mary. 



tiick'd and piped her ' Wyatt,' 
red as she 
In hair and cheek; and almost elbo 



So close they stood, a 

death, 
And white as her cfvvn 

Had felt the falt^ 



other, mute as 

nilk; her babe 

ng of his mother's 



An,l l..,,k'd as bloodless. Here a 

|.ious Catholic, 
Mumbling and mixing up in his 

scared prayers 
Heaven and earths Maries ; over his 

bow'd shoulder 
Scowl'd that world-hated and world- 
hating beast, 
A haggard Anabaptist. Many such 

groups. 
The names of Wyatt, Elizabeth, Cour- 

tenay. 
Nay the Queen's right to reign — 'fore 

God, the rogues — 
Were freely buzzed among them. So 

I say 
Your city is divided, and I fear 
One scruple, this or that way, of suc- 

Would turn it thither. Wherefore 

now the Queen 
In this low pulse and palsy of the 

Bad me to tell you that she counts 

on you 
And on myself as her two hands ; on 

you, 
In your own city, as her right, my 

Lord, 
For von are loyal. 

White. 'Ami Thomas White ? 

One word before she comes. Kliza- 

beth— 
Her name is much abused among 

these traitors. 
Where is she ? She is loved by all of 

us. 
I scarce haVe heart to mingle in this 

If she should be mishardled. 

Howard. No ; she shall not. 

The Queen had written her vord to 
come to co'jrt : 





Methought I smelt 

letter, 
And fearing for her, sent 



Which told her to be sick. Happily 

or not. 
It found her sick indeed. 

IV/tite. God send her well ; 

Here comes her Royal Grace. 

Enter Guards, Mary, anj Gardi- 
ner. Sir Thomas White leads 
her to a raised seat on the dais. 
White. I, the Lord Mayor, and 
these our companies 

And guilds of London, gathered here, 
beseech 

Your Highness to accept our lowliest 
thanks 

For your most princely presence ; 
and we pray 

That we, your true and loyal citi- 
zens, 

From your own royal lips, at once 
may know 

The wherefore of this coming, and so 
learn 

Your royal will, and do it. — I, Lord 
Mayor 

Of London, and our guilds and com- 
panies. 
Mary. In mine own person am I 
come to you, 

T-o tell you what indeed ye see and 
know. 

How traitorously these rebels out of 
Kent 

Have made strong head against our- 
selves and you. 

They would not have me wed the 



they spake 



Prince of Sf 
That was their prel 

at first— 
But we sent divers of our Council to 

them, 
And by their answers to the question 

ask'd, 
It doth appear this marriage is the 

least 
Of all their quarrei. 
They have betrayed the treason of 

their hearts : 





Queen Mary. 



Seek to possess our person, hold our 

Tower, 
Place and displace our councillors, 

and use 
Both us and them according as they 

Now what I am ye know right well — 

your Queen ; 
To whom, when I was wedded to the 

And the realm's laws (the spousal 

ring whereof. 
Not ever to be laid aside, I wear 
Upon this finger), ye did promise full 
Allegiance and obedience to the 

death. 
Ye know my father was the rightful 

heir 
Of England, and his right came down 

to me. 
Corroborate by your acts of Parlia- 
ment : 
And as ye were most loving unto him, 
So doubtless will ye show yourselves 



Wherefore, ye 

anyone 
Should seize o 



vill not brook that 
person, occupy our 
More specially a traitor so presunip- 



As thi: 



.ibli 



Of 



same Wyatt, who hath tai 
r'd with 

ignorance, and, under coIo 
a cause as hath no cole 



To bend the laws to his own will, and 

yield 
Full scope to persons rascal and for- 

To make free spoil and havoc of 

your goods. 
Now as your Prince, I say, 
I, that was never mother, cannot tell 
How mothers love their children ; yet, 

methinks, 
A prince as naturally may love his 

people 
As these their children ; and be sure 

your Queen 
So loves you, and so loving, needs 

: deem 
This love by you return'd as heartily ; 





And thro' this common knot and bond 
of love, 

Doubt not they will be speedily over- 
thrown. 

As to this marriage, ye shall under- 
stand 

We made thereto no treatv of our- 
selves, 

And set no foot theretoward unadvised 

Of all our Privy Council ; further- 
more. 

This marriage had the assent of those 
to whom 

The king, my father, did commit his 
trust ;' 

Who not alone esteem'd it honorable. 

But for the wealth and glory of our 
realm. 

And all our loving subjects, most ex- 
pedient. 

As to myself, 

I am not so set on wedlock as to 
choose 

But where I list, nor yet so amorous 

That I must needs be husbanded ; I 
thank God, 

I have lived a virgin, and I noway 
doubt 

But that with God's grace, I can live 
so still. 

Yet if it might please God that I should 
leave 

Some fruit of miTie own body after 

To be your king, ye 



the 



uuld rejoice 
jmfort, as I 



And it would be your con 

trust ; 
And truly, if I either thought or knew 
This marriage should bring loss or 

danger to you, 
Mv subjects, or impair in any way 
This royal state of England, I would 

never 
Consent thereto, nor marry while 1 



Moreover, 
Before our 



this m 
iwn Hi: 



■iage should 



ment. 
To be of rich advantage to our realm. 
We will refrain, and not alone from 





Qiucn Ma 



any other, out of 

least chance o£ peril to our 

n. 
Wherefore be bold, and with your 

lawful Prince 
Stand fast against our enemies and 



And fear them not. 

My Lord, 
I leave Lord WUliai 



I fear them noi 
Howard in you 



To guard and keep you whole and safe 

from all 
The spoil and sackage aim'd at by 

these rebels, 
Who mouth and foam against the 
Prince of Spain. 
Voices. Long live Queen Mary ! 

Down with Wyatt ! 
The Queen ! 
White. Three voices from our 
guilds and companies! 
You are shy and proud like English- 
men, my masters. 
And will not trust your voices. Un- 
derstand : 
Your lawful Prince hath come to cast 

herself 
On loval hearts and bosoms, hoped to 

■fall 
Into the wide-spread arms of fealty. 
And finds you statues. Speak at 

once — and all ! 
For whom ? 
Our sovereign Lady by King Harry's 

The Queen of England — or the Kent- 
ish Squire ? 

I know you loyal. Speak ! in the 
name of God ! 

The Queen of England or the rabble 
of Kent ? 

The reeking dungfork master of the 
mace ! 

Your havings wasted by the scythe 
and spade — 

Your rights and charters hobnail'd 
into slush — 

Your houses fired — your gutters bub- 
bling blood 

Acclamation. No! No! The 
Queen ! the Queen ! 





Wkite. Your Highness hears 

This burst and bass of loyal harmony. 
And how we each and all of us abhor 
The venomous, bestial, devilish revolt 
Of Thomas Wyatt. Hear us now 

make oath 
To raise your Highness thirty thou- 
sand men. 
And arm and strike as with one hand, 

and brush 
This Wyatt from our shoulders, like a 

flea 
That might have leapt upon us una- 
wares. 
Swear with me, noble fellow-citizens, 

all. 
With all your trades, and guilds, and 
companies. 
Citizens. We swear ! 
Mary. We thank your Lordship 
and vour loyal city. 

iExit Mary attended. 
IVhite. I trust this day, thro' God, 

I have saved the crown. 
First Alderman. Ay, so my Lord 
of Pembroke in command 
Of all her force be safe ; but there are 
doubts. 
Second Alderman. I hear that Gar- 
diner, coming with the Queen, 
And meeting Pembroke, bent to his 

saddle-bow. 
As if to win the man by flattering him. 
Is he so safe to fight upon her side .' 
■ First Alderman. If not, there's no 
man safe. 
Wltite. Yes, Thomas While. 

I am safe enough ; no man need flatter 

Second Alderman. Nay, no man 

need; but did you mark our 

Queen ? 
The color freely play'd into her face. 
And the half sight which makes her 

look so stern, 
Seem'd thro' that dim dilated world of 

hers, 
To read our faces ; I have never seen 

her 
So queenly or so goodly. 

Wliite. Courage, sir. 

That makes or man or woman look 

their goodliest. 





Queen Mary. 



ike the torn fox dumb, but i 

whine 
Like that poor heart, Northumberland, 

at the block. 
Ba:^enhan. The man had children, 

and he whined for those. 
Methinks most men are but poor- 
hearted, else 
Sliould we so doat on courage, w 

commoner ? 
The Queen stands up, and speaks foi 

her own self; 
And all men cry, She is queenly, she 

is goodly. 
Yet she's no goodlier ; tho' my Lord 

Mayor here, 
By his own rule, lie hath been so bold 

to-day. 
Should look more goodly than the 

rest of us. 
White. Goodly.' I feel most 

goodly heart and hand. 
And strong to throw ten Wyatts and 

all Kent. 
Ha ! ha ! sir ; but you jest ; I love it ; 

In time of danger shows the pulses 

Be merrv ! yet. Sir Ralph, vou look 

biit sad. 
I dare avouch you'd stand up for 

yourself, 
Tho' all the world should bay like 

winter wolves. 
Bas^enliall. Who knows .' /the man 

is proven by the hour. \ 
White. The man should make the 

hour, not this the man ; 
,A.nd Thomas White will prove this 

Thomas Wyatt, 
And he will prove an Iden to this Cade, 
And he will play the Walworth to 

this Wat ; 
Come, sirs, we prate; hence all — 

gather your men — 
Myself must bustle. Wyatt comes to 

Southwark ; 
I'll have the drawbridge hewn into the 

Thames, 
And see the citizens arm'd. Cood 





BowarJ. For all that, 

Most honest, brave, and skilful ; and 

his wealth 
A fountain of perennial alms — his 

fault 
So thoroughly to believe in his own 

self. 
Bagenhall. Yet thoroughly to be- 
lieve in one's own self. 
So one's own self be thorough, were 

to do 
Great things, my Lord. 

Howard. It may be. 

Bagenhall. I have heard 

One of your Council fleer and jeer at 

him. 
HmuiDii. The nursery-cocker'd 

child will jeer at aught 
That may seem strange beyond his 

nursery. 
The statesman that shall jeer and 

fleer at men. 
Makes enemies for himself and for 

his king ; 
And if he jeer not seeing the true 

Behind his folly, he is thrice the fool ; 
And if he see the man and still will 

jeer. 
He is child and fool, and traitor to 

the State. 
Who is he .' let me shun him. 

Bagenhall. Nay, my Lord, 

He is damii'd enough already. 

Hffiuard. I must set 

The guard at Ludgate. Fare you well. 

Sir Ralph. 
Bagenhall. 'Who knows?' I am 

for England. But who knows. 
That knows the Queen, the Spaniard, 

and the Pope, 
Whether I be for Wyatt, or the 

Oueen? [Exeunt. 



SCENE 
Enter 



-London Bridge. 



Wyatt. Brett, when the Duke of 
Norfolk moved aa;ainst us 





"by that old bridge which, half in RDINS THEKr>-/b^« . 




Queen Mary. 



Thou cried'st ' A Wyatt ! ' and flying 

to our side 
Left his all bare, for which I love 

thee, Brett. 
Have for thine asking aught that I 

can give, 
For thro' thine help we are come to 

London Bridge ; 
But how to cross it balks me. I fear 

Brett. Nay, hardly, save by boat, 

swimming, or wings. 
Wyatt. Last night I climb'd into 
the gate-house, Brett, 
And scared the gray old porter and 

his wife. 
And then I crept along the gloom and 

They had hewn the drawbridge down 

into the river. 
It roU'd as black as death ; and that 

same tide 
Which, coming with our coming, 

seem'd to smile 
And sparkle like our fortune as thou 

saidest. 
Ran sunless down, and moan'd 

agamst the piers. 
But o'er the chasm I saw Lord Wil- 
liam Howard 
By torchlight, and his guard ; four 

guns gaped at me. 
Black, silent mouths: had Howard 

spied me there 
And made them speak, as well he 

might have done. 
Their voice had left me none to tell 



thii 



Wha 



:do? 



Brett. On somehow. To go back 
Were to lose all. 

Wyatt. On .over London Bridge 
We cannot : stay we cannot ; there is 

ordnance 
( )n the White Tower and on the 

Devil's Tower, 
And pointed full at Southwark ; we 



By Kingston Bridge. 

Brett. ■ "Ten mil 

Wyatt. 
But I have notice from 





Within the city that thev will stand 
by us 

If Ludgate can be reach'dby dawn to- 
morrow. 

Eiit^r one of W'yatt's men. 

Man. Sir Thomas, I've found this 

paper; pray your worship read it ; 1 

know not my letters ; the old priests 

taught me nothing. 

VVyatt (reads). "Whosoever will 
apprehend the traitor Thomas Wyatt 
shall have a hundred pounds for re- 
ward.' 

Man. Is that it .' That's a big lot 

of money. 
Wyatt. Ay, ay, my friend ; not read 
it .> 'tis not written 
Half plain enough. Give me a piece 
of paper I 
[Writes • Thomas Wva'iT ' /ar^e. 
There, any man can read that. 

[Stiei-s it in /lis cap. 
Brett. But that's foolhardy. 

Wyatt. No! boldness, which will 
give my followers boldness. 

Enter Man w/M a prisoner. 

Man. We found him, your wor- 
ship, a plundering o' Bishop Winches- 
ter's house ; he say's he's a poor 
gentleman. 

Wyatt. Gentleman! a thief! Go 

hang him. Shall we make 

Those that we come to serve our 

sharpest foes .' 

Brett. Sir Thomas— 

Wyatt. Hang him, I say 

Brett. Wyatt, but now you ):irom- 

ised me a boon. 
Wyatt. Ay, and I warrant this fine 

fellow's life, 
Brett. Ev'n so ; he was my neigh- 
bor once in Kent, 
He's poor enough, has drunk and 

gambled out 
All that he had, and gentleman he 



We ha 



ad together; let h 



Iiya/t. He has gambled fo 
life, and lost, he hangs. 





Qiu-ai Mary. 



No, no, my word's my word. Take 

thy poor gentleman ! 
Gamble thyself at once out of my 

sight', 
Or I w)ll dig thee with my dagger. 

Away : 
Women and children ! 

Enter a Crowd of Women ami Chil- 

First Woman. O Sir Thomas, -Sir 
Thomas, prav you go away. Sir 
Thomas, or you'll make the White 
Tower a black "un for us this blessed 
day. He'll be the death on us ; and 
you'll set the Divil's Tower a-spitting, 
and he'll smash all our bits o' things 
worse than Philip o' Spain. 

SeooiiJ IVoman. Don't ye now go 
to think that we be for Philip o' Spain. 

T/i,,i/ IVoman. No, we know that 
ye be come to kill the Queen, and 



kill the Queen here. Sir 'Thomas; 
look ve, here's little Dickon, and little 
Robin, and little Jennv— though she's 
but a side-cousin— and all on our 
knees, we pray vuu t<i kill the Queen 
further ..ft", Sir Thomas. 

matt. My friends, I have not 
come to kill the Queen 
Or here or there : I come to save you 

all. 
And I'll go further off. 

CrowJ. Thanks, Sir Thomas, we 



IVyalt. Be happy, I am vour 

friend. To Kingston, forward ! 

[E.x-eu,.t. 



Gardiner. Their cry iS; 

never shall be king. 

Mary. Lord Pembroke 

nd of all our force 





Will front their cry and shatter them 

into dust. 
Alice. Was not Lord Pembroke 

with Northumberland.' 
O madam, if this Pembroke should be 

false .' 
Ma>y. No, girl ; most brave and 

loyal, brave and loyal. 
His breaking with Northumberland 

broke Northumberland. 
At the park gate he hovers with our 

guards. 
These Kentish ploughmen cannot 

break the guards. 

Enter MESSENGER. 
Ii/es.<eiii'er. Wyatt, your Grace, 
hath broken thro' the guards 
And gone to Ludgate. 

Gardiner. Madam, I much fear 

That all is lost ; but we can save your 

Grace. 
The river still is free. I do beseech 

you. 
There yet is time, take boat and pass 
to Windsor. 
Mary. I pass to Windsor and I 

lose my crown. 
Gardiner. Pass, then, I pray your 

Highness, to the Tower. 
Mary. I shall but be their prisoner 

in the Tower. 
Cries -uithout. The traitor ! treason t 

Pembroke ! 
Ladies. Treason ! treason I 

Mary. Peace. 
False to Northumberland, is he false 

to me .' 
Bear witness, Renard, that I live and 

die 
The true and faithful bride of Philip 

— A sound 
Of feel and voices thickening hither — 

blows — 
Hark, there is battle at the palace 

gates, 
And I will out upon the gallery. 
Ladies. No, no, your Grace ; see 

there the arrows flying. 
Mary. I am Harry's daughter, 
Tudor, and not Fear. 







' the gallery. 




Queen Mary 



The guards are all driven in, sliulk 
into corners 

Like rabbits to their holes. A gra- 
cious guard 

Truly ; shame on them ! they have 
shut the gates ! 

Enter Sir Robert Southwell. 

Southwell. The porter, please your 
Grace, hath shut the gates ' 
On friend and foe. Your gentlemen- 
at-arms, 
If this be not your Grace's order, cry 
To have the gates set wide again, and 

they 
With their good battleaxes will do 

you right 
Again-st all traitors. 
Mary. They are the flower of Eng- 
land ; set the gates wide. 

{Exit Southwell. 

Enter Courtenay. 

Courtenay. All lost, all lost, all 

yielded ! A barge, a barge ! 

The Queen must to the Tower. 

Mary. Whence come you, sir.' 

Courtenay. From Charing Cross ; 

the rebels broke us there. 

And I sped hither with what haste I 

might 
To save my royal cousin. 
Mary. Where is Pembroke ? 

Coui-teiiay. I left him somewhere 

in the thick of it. 
Mary. Left him and fled; and 
thou that wouldst be King, 
And hast nor heart nor honor. I mv- 

self 
Will down into the battle and therebide 
The upshot of my quarrel, or die with 

those 
That are no cowards and no Courte- 



Enter another Messenger. 





Thrust him from Ludgate 

traitor flying 
To Temple Bar, there by Sii 

Berkeley 
Was taken prisoner. 
Mary. To the Tower with him ! 
Messenger. *Tis said he told Sir 
Maurice there was one 
Cognizant of this, and party there- 

Jly Lord of Devon. 

Mary. To the Tower with him ! 
Courtenay. O la, the Tower, the 
Tower, always the Tower, 
I shall grow into it — I shall be the 
Tower. 
Mary. Your Lordship may not 
have so long to wait. 
Remove him I 

Courtenay. La, to whistle out my 
life. 
And carve my coat upon the walls 
again ! 

[Exit Cowxtfns-y guarded. 
Messenger. Also this Wyatt did 
confess the Princess 
Cognizant thereof, and party there- 
unto. 
Mary. What .' whom — whom did 

you say .' 
Messenger. Elizabeth, 

Your Royal sister. 

Mary. To the Tower with her ! 

My foes are at my feet and I am 
Queen. 
[Gardiner and her Ladies kneel to 

her. 
Gardiner (rising). There let them 
lie, your footstool ! {Aside.) 
Can I strike 
Elizabeth .' — not now and save the life 
Of Devon : if I save him, he and his 
Are bound to me — mav strike here- 
after. 

{Aloud.) Madam, 
What Wyatt said, or what they said 

he said. 
Cries of the moment and the street — 
Mary. He said it. 

Gardiner. Your courts of 

will determine that. 
Renard {advancing). I trust by this 
your Highness will allow 





Some spice of wisdom in my telling 

you, 
When last we talk'd, that Philip would 

not come 
Till Guildford Dudley and the Duke 

of Suffolk, 
And Lady Jane had left us. 

Maiy. They shall die. 

Kenard. And your so loving sister .' 

Mary. She shall die. 

My foes are at my feet, and Philip 

King. [Exeunt. 



JENE I. — The Conduit in 
Grace-church, 

r:if,a'wit/i the Nine lVort/iies,amo>!<^ 
:liem King Henry VIII. holdino a 
iiook, on it inscribed ' Verbum Dei.' 



Bagenhall. A hundred here and 
hundreds hang'd in Kent. 

The tigress had unsheath'd her nails 
at la.st. 

And kenard and the Chancellor 
sharpen'd them. 

In every London street a gibbet stood. 

They are down to-day. Here by this 
house was one ; 

The traitor husband dangled at the 
door, 

And when the traitor wife came out 
for bread 

To still the petty treason therewithin, 

Her cap would brush his heels. 
Stafford. It is Sir Ralph, 

And muttering to himself as hereto- 
fore. 

Sir, see you aught up yonder ? 

Biizenluill. I miss something. 



The tree that only bears dead fruit is 



Stafford. What tree, sir .' 
B,ii;enhaU. Well, the tree i 

Virgil, sir, 
"lears not its own ap]-)les. 
Stafford. What! the gallows 





Mary. 



Bagenhall. Sir, this dead fruit ^^■as 
ripening overmuch. 
And had to be removed lest living 

Spain 
Should sicken at dead England. 

Stafford. Not so dead. 

But that a shock may rouse her. 

Ba^cnhail. I believe 

Sir Thomas Stafford .' 

Siafford. I am ill disguised. 

Bagenhall. Well, are you not in 

peril here .' 
Stafford. I think so. 

I came to feel th? pulse of England, 

whether 
It beats hard at this marriage. Did 
you see it ? 
Bagenliaii. Stafford, I am a sad 
man and a serious. 
Far liefer had I in my country hall 
Been reading some old book, with 

mine old hound 
Couch'd at my. hearth, and mine old 

flask of Mfine 
Beside me, than have seen it: yet I 
saw it. 
Stafford. Good, was it si^lendid .' 
Ba'-eiihall. Av, if Dukes, and 
■ Earls, 
And Counts, and sixty Spanish cava- 

Some six or seven Bishops, diamonds, 

pearls. 
That roval commonplace too, cloth of 

gold, . 



.SV,; 



.\nd what was Marv' 



dre.> 



Bagen/„t!,'. Good faith, I was too 
sorry for the woman 
To mark the dress. She wore red 
shoes! 
Stafford. Red shoes ! 

Bagi-nhali. Scarlet, as if her feel 
were wash'd in blood. 
As if she had waded in it. 

Siafford. Were your eye-; 

So bashful that you look'd no higher .' 

Bagenhall. A diamon..!, 

And Philip's gift, as proof of Philip's 

love. 
Who hath not any for any, — tho' a 




[ 


1 


i< 


SCKNE I. - Qiiccn 


Mary. 241 " 


i 




I'.lazed false upon her heart. 


Would perish on the civil slaughter- 




SiafforJ. But this proud Prince— 


field. 


_ 






A,;;, <///,///. Nav, he is King, you 


And leave the people naked to tl-,e 






iXs know, the King of Naples. 

The father ceded Naples, that the 


crown, «A5 




And the crown naked to the people ; 




son 


the crown 




Heing a King, might wed a Queen,— 


Female, too ! Sir, no woman's regi- 




Ohe 


men 




Flamed in brocade — white satin his 


Can save us. We are fallen, and as I 




trunk-hose. 


think. 




Inwrought with silver,— on his neck a 


Never to rise again. 




collar. 


Stafford. You are too black- 




Gold, thick with diamonds; hanging 


blooded. 




down from this 


I'd make a move myself to hinder 




The Golden Fleece— and round his 


that : 




knee, misplaced. 


I know some lusty fellows there in 




Our English Garter, studded with 


France. 




great emeralds. 


Bagetihall. You would but make 




Rubies, I know not what. Have you 


us weaker, Thomas Stafford. 




had enough 
Of all this gear ? 


Wyatt was a good soldier, vet he 




fail'd, 




Stafford. Av, since you hate the 


And strengthen^ Philip. 




telling it. ' 


Stafford. Did not his last breath 




How look'd the Queen ? 


Clear Courtenay and the Princess 




Baf;f,ihall. No fairer for her 


from the charge 




jewels. 


Of being his co-rebels .? 




And I could see that as the new-made 


Bagciihall. ' Ay, but then 




couple 


What such a one as Wyatt says is 




Came from the Minster, moving side 


nothing : 




bv side 


We have no men among us. The 




Beneath one canopy, ever and anon 


new Lords 




She cast on him a vassal smile of love, 


Are quieted with their sop of Abbey- 




Which Philip with a glance of some 


lands. 




distaste, 


And ev'n before the Queen's face 




Or so melhought, return'd. I may be 


Gardiner buys them 
With Philip's gold. All greed, no 




wrong, sir. 




This marriage will not hold. 


faith, no courage ! 




Stafford. I think with you. 
The king of France will help to break 


Why, ev'n the haughty prince, North- 




umberland, 




it. 


The leader of our Reformation, knelt 




Bag€,ihall. France ! 


And blubber'd like a lad, and on the 




We once had half of France, and 


scaffold 




hurl'd our battles 


Recanted, and resold himself to 




Into the heart of Spain ; but Em;land 


Rome. 




now 


Stafford. I swear vou do your 




Is but a ball chuck-d between France 


countrv wrong, Sir Ralph. 




and Spain, 


I know a set 'of exiles over there, . 




«Y> His in who-e hand she drops ; Harry 


Dare-devils, that would eat fire and ^ 






Had hnlpen Kidiard's tottering throne 


At Philip's beard : thev pillage Spain 


■ 


i 




to stand. 


already- 








Could Harrvhave foreseen that all 


The French King winks at it. An 






^; 


our nobles 

HI \ I 


hour will come 


} 




c — — r» 


y 















QiiMi Mary. 



When they will sweep her from the 

seas. No men ? 
Did not Lord Suffolk die like a true 



Is nc 
Yea, 
And 



myself 



black- 

I, by God, be 
man. 
Ay, even in the church there is a man 

— Cranmer. 
Fly would he not, when all men bad 

him fly. 
And what a letter he wrote against 

the Pope ! 
There's a brave man, if any. 

Bai^fuhall. Av ; if it hold. 

Crowd (coming on). God save their 

Graces ! 
Stafford. Bagenhall, I see 

The 'I'udor green and white. ( Trum- 
pets.) They are coming now. 
And here's a crowd as thick as her- 
ring-shoals. 
Bagenhall. Be limpets to this pil- 
lar, or we are torn 
Down the strong wave of brawlers. 
Crowd. God save their Graces ! 
\Processio„ of Trumpeters, Jave- 
linmeii, etc. ; then Spanish and 
Flemish Nobles intermingled. 
Stafford. Worth seeing, Bagenhall ! 
These black dog-Dons 
Garb themselves bravely. Who's the 

long-face there, 
Looks very Spain of very Spain ? 

Bagenhall. The Duke 

Of Alva, an iron soldier. 

Stafford. And the Dutchman, 

Now laughing at some jest ? 

Bagenhall. William of Orange, 

William the Silent. 

Stafford. Why do they call him so ? 

Bagenhall. He keeps, they say, 

some secret that may cost 

Philip his life. 

Stafford. But then he looks so 



Bagenhall. I cannot tell you why 
they call him so. 
[ The King and Queen pass, 
attended by Peers of the Realm, 





Officers of State, etc.. Cannon 

shot off. 
Croiod. Philip and Mary, Philip 

and Mary ! 
Long live the King and Queen, Philip 

and Mary ! 
Stafford. They smile as if content 

with one another. 
Bagenhall. A smile abroad is oft a 

scowl at home. 
[King and Queen pass on. Proces- 
sion. 
First Citizen. I thought this Philip 
had been one of those black devils of 
Spain, but he hath a yellow beard. 
Second Citizen. Not red like Iscar- 

First Citizen. Like a carrot's, as 
thou say'st, and English carrot's bet- 
ter than Spanish licorice.; but I 
thought he was a beast. 

Third Citizen. Certain I had 
heard that every Spaniard carries a 
tail like a devil under his trunk-hose. 

Tailor. Ay, but see what trunk- 
hoses ! Lord ! they be fine ; I never 
stitch'd none such. They make 
amends for the tails. 

Fourth Citizen. Tut ! every Span- 
ish priest will tell you that all English 
heretics have tails. 

Fifth Citizen. Death and the Devil 
— if he find I have one — 

Fourth Citizen. Lo ! thou hast 
cail'd them up! here they come — a 
pale horse for Death and Gardiner for 
the Devil. 



Enter GARDINER (turning bach from 
the procession). 

Gardiner. Knave, wilt thou wear 

thy cap .before the Queen. 

Jlfan. My Lord, I stand so 

squeezed among the crowd. 

I cannot lift my hands unto my head. 

Gardiner. Knock off his cap there, 

some of you about him ! 

See there be others that can use their 

hands. 
Thou art one of Wyatt's men ? 

Mati. No, my Lord, no. 

Gardiner. Thv name, thou knave .' 





Man. I am nobody, my Lord. 

Gardiner [shouting). God's pas- 
sion ! knave, thy name ? 
Ma7i. I have ears to hear. 

Gardiner. Ay, rascal, if I leave 
thee ears to hear. 
Find out his name and bring it me [to 
Attendant). 
Attendant. Ay, my Lord. 

Gardiner. Knave, thou shalt lose 
thine ears and find thy tongue. 
And shalt be thankful if I leave thee 
that. 

[Coming before the Conduit. 
The conduit painted — the nine wor- 
thies—ay ! 
But then what's here ? King Harry 

with a scroll. 
Ha — Verbum Dei — verbum — word of 

God! 
God's passion ! do you know the 
knave that painted it ? 
Attendant. I do, my Lord. 
Gardiner. Tell him to paint it out, 
And put some fresh device in lieu of 

A pair of gloves, a pair of gloves, sir ; 

ha? 
There is no heresy there. 

Attetidant. I will, my Lord ; 

The man shall paint a pair of gloves. 

I am sure 
(Knowing the man) he wrought it 

ignorantly, 
And not from any malice. 

Gardiner. Word of God 

In English ! over this the brainless 

loons 
That cannot spell Esaias from .St. 

Paul, 
Make themselves drunk and mad, fly 

out and flare 
Into rebellions. I'll have their bibles 

burnt. 
The bible is the priest's. Ay ! fellow, 

what ! 
Stand staring at me ! shout, you gap- 
ing rogue ! 
Man. I have, my Lord, shouted 

till I am hoarse. 
Gardiner. What hast thou shouted, 

knave .' 
Man. Long live Queen Mary ! 




Gardiner. Knave, there be two. 
There be both King and Queen, 
Philip and Mary. Shout ! 

Man. Nay, but, my Lord, 

The Queen comes first, Marv and 
Philip. 

Gardiner. Shout, then, 

Marv and Philip ! 

Man. Mary and Philip I 

Gardiner. Now, 

Thou hast shouted for thy pleasure, 

shout for mine ! 
Philip and Mary! 

Man. Must it be so, my Lord ? 

Gardiner. Ay, knave. 

Man. Philip and Mary ! 

Gardiner. I distrust thee. 

Thine is a half voice and a lean assent. 
What is thy name ? 

Man. Sanders. 

Gardiner. What else? 

Man. Zerubbabel. 

Gardiner. Where dnst thou live ? 

Man. In Cornhill. 

Gardiner. Where, knave, where ? 

3Ian. Sign of the Talbot. 

Gardiner. Come to me to-mor- 

Rascal ! — this land is like a hill of firt. 
One crater opens when another shuts. 
But so I get the laws against the here- 

Spite of Lord Paget and Lord William 

Howard, 
And others of our Parliament, revived, 
I will show fire on my side — stake and 

fire — 
Sharp work and short. The knaves 

are easily cow'd. 
Follow their Majesties. 

[Exit. The ero-wd follo7ving. 
Bagenhall. As proud as Becket. 
Stafford. You would not have him 

murder'd as Becket was ? 
Bagenhall. No— murder fathers 
murder : but I say 
There is no man— there was one 

woman with us — 
It was a sin to love her married, dead 
I cannot choose but love her. 

Stafford. Lady Jane ? 

Crowd (,^oing off). God save tlieir 
Graces ! 






















/cra=4=F=^ ^ 1 1 rvT 


>\ 




1 


244 Queen 


Afary. act in. 


Shxfford. Did you see her die ? 


Bai^cHhall. Then knelt and said 




■ - B.igcnhall. No, no; her innocent 


the Miserere Mei— 


- 






blood had blinded me. 


But all in English, mark you ; rose 








=A5 Vou call me too black-blooded— true 


again, <^ 






enough 


And, when the headsman pray'd to be 






Her dark dead blood is in my heart 


forgiven. 






with mine. 


Said 'You will give me my true 


1 




If ever I cry onl against the Pope 


crown at last, 






Her dark dead blood that ever moves 


But do it quickly ; ' then all wept but 






with mine 


she. 


1 




Will stir the living tongue and make 


Who changed not color when she 


1 




the crv. 


saw the block, 


j 




St.i/n'i.!^ ^■. t a.Mi'.iless vou can tell 

" me h'<\\ >\v Jird? 


But ask'd him, childlike : ' Will you 
take it off 


1 




B,,^,,,;,. ■/. .-cM.tLcn— and knew 


Before I lay me down .' ' ' No, madam,' 






eight lauyu.igc.-,— in music 


he said, 


I 




Peerless— her needle perfect, and her 


Gasping ; and when her innocent eyes 






learning 


were bound. 






Beyond the churchmen ; yet so meek. 


She, with her poor blind hands feeling 






so modest, 


— -' where is it ' 






So wife-like humble to the trivial bov 


Where is it .? '—Vou must fancy that 






Mismatch'd with her for policy ! I 


which fullou'-d. 






have heard 


If you have heart to do it ! 






She would not take a last farewell of 


Crcnvd (ill the distance). God save 






him, 


their Graces 1 






She fear'd it might unman him for 


Stafford. Their Graces, our dis- 


1 




his end. 


graces ! God confound them 1 






She could not be unmann'd— no, nor 


Whv, she's grown bloodier ! when I 






outwoman'd— 


last was here. 






Seventeen— a rose of grace ! 


This was against her conscience — 






Girl never breathed to rival such a 


would be murder ! 






rose ■ 


Bageiihall. The ' Thou shalt do no 






Rose never blew that ecmall'd such a 


murder,' which God's hand 






bud. 


Wrote on her conscience, Mary rubb'd 






Staffoni. Pray yon go on. 


out pale- 






Bapenkall. Slie came upon the 


She could not make it while— and 






scaffold, 


over that, 






And said she was condemn'd to die 


Traced in the blackest text of Hell— 






for treason ; 


■Thou Shalt!' 






She had but follow'd the device of 


And sign'd it— Mary ! 

Stafford. Philip and the Pope 






those 






Her nearest kin: she thought they 


Must have sign'd too. I hear this 






knew the laws. 


Legate's coming 






But for herself, she knew but little 


To bring us absolution from the 






law. 


Pope. 






.\nd nothing of the tides to the 


The Lords and Commons will bow 






crown; 


down before him— 






«Y» She had no desire for that, and wrung 


You are of the house.' what will y.ni . "r 








her hands, 


do. Sir Ralph.' 










And trusted God would save her thro' 


Bat;eiiliall. And why should I be 










the blood 


■^ b.lder than the rest. 










Of Jesus Christ alone. 


Or honestcr than all .' 








J 


Stafford. Pray you go on. 

T1 [ 1 ? 


Stafford. r.ut, sir.if I- 


;^ 










Queen Mary. 



hey say this state of 



nil more mortice than a tower 

of cards ; 

And that a puff would do it — then if I 
And others made that move I touch'd 

upon, 
Back'd by the power of France, and 

Came with a sudden splendor, shout, 

and show. 
And dazzled men and deafen'd bv 

some bright 
Loud venture, and the people so 

unquiet — 
And I the race of murder'd Buckuig- 

ham — 
Not for myself, but for the king- 
dom — Sir, 
I trust that you would fight along 

with us. 
Bagfiihall. No ; you would fling 

your lives into the gulf. 
Stafford. But if this Philip, as he's 

like to do. 
Left Mary a wife-widow here alone. 
Set up a viceroy, sent his myriads 

hither 
To seize upon the forts and fleet, and 

A Spanish province; would you not 
fight then ? 
Bageiihall. I think I should fight 

than. 
Stafford. I am sure of it. 
Hist ! there's the face coming on here 

of one 
Who knows me. I must leave you. 

Fare you well. 
You'll hear of me again. 

Bai;enhall. Upon the scaffold. 

\E^cu,U. 



Pole. Ave Maria, gratia plena, 
Benedicts tu in mulieribus. 

Mary. Loyal and royal cousin, 

humblest thanks. 





Had you a pleasant voyage up the 

Pole. We had your royal barge, 

and that same chair, 
Or rather throne of purple, on the 

deck. 
Our silver cross sparkled before the 

prow, 
The ripples twinkled at their diamond- 
dance, 
The boats that foUow'd, were as 

glowing-gay 
As regal gardens; and your flocks of 

swans. 
As fair and white as angels ; and 

your shores 
Wore in mine eyes the green of Par- 
adise. 
My foreign friends, who dream'd us 

blanketed 
In ever-closing fog, were much 

amazed 
To find as fair a sun as might have 

flash'd 
Upon their lake of Garda, fire the 

Thames; 
Our voyage by sea was all but miracle ; 
And here the river flowing from the 

sea. 
Not toward it (for they thought not 

of our tides), 
Seem'd as a happy miracle to make 

glide — 
In quiet^iome your banish'd coun- 

Mary'. We heard that you were 

sick in Flander.s, cousin. 
Pole. A dizziness. 
Mary. And how came you 

round again ? 
Pole. The scarlet thread of Rahab 

saved her life ; 
And mine, a little letting of the 

blood. 
Mary. Well ? now ? 
Pole. Ay, cousin, as the 

heathen giant 
Had but to touch the ground, his 

force return'd — 
Thus, after twenty years of 



Feelii 



my native land beneath 





Quem Mary. 



I said tliereto ; ' Ah, native land of 

mine, 
Tliou art much beholden to this foot 



Tliat hastes with full commission 

from the Pope 
To absolve thee from thy guilt of 

heresy. 
Thou hast disgraced me and attainted 

me. 
And marli'd me ev'n as Cain, and I 

return 
As Peter, but to bless thee: make me 

well.' 
Methinks the good land heard me, 

for to-day 
My heart beats twenty, when I see 

you, cousin. 
Ah, gentle cousin, since your Herod's 

death, 
How oft hath Peter knock'd at 

Mary's gate ! 
And Mary would have risen and let 

him in. 
But, Mary, there were those within 

the house 
Who would not have it. 

Mary. True, good cousin Pole ; 

And there were also those without 

the house 
Who would not have it. 

Pole. I believe so, cousm. 

State-policy and church-policy are 

conjoint. 
But Janus-faces looking diverse ways. 
I fear the Emperor much misvalued 

But all is well; 'twas ev'n the will of 

God. 
Who, waiting till the time had 

ripen'd, now. 
Makes me his mouth of holy greeting. 

' Hail, 
Daughter of God, and saver of the 

faith. 
Sit benedictus fructus ventris tui ! '.,— 
Mary. Ah, heaven ! 

Unwell, your Grace ? 

Mary. No, cousin, happy — 

Happy to see you ; never yet so 

happy 
Since I was crown'd. 
Pole. Sweet cousin, you forget 





That long low minster where you gave 

your hand 
To this great Catholic King. 

Philip. Well said. Lord Legate. 

Mary. Nay, not well said; I 

thought of you, my liege, 

Ev'n as I spoke. 

Philip. Ay, Madam ; my Lord 

Paget 

Waits to present our Council to the 

Legate. 
Sit down here, all ; Madam, between 

Pole. Lo, now you are enclosed 

with boards of cedar. 
Our little sister of the Song of 

Songs ! 
Vou are doubly fenced and shielded 

sitting here 
Between the two most high-set 

thrones on earth, 
The Emperor's highness happily svm- 

bol'd by 
The King vour husband, the Pope's 

Holiness 
By mine own self. 

Mary. True, cousin, I am happv. 
When will you that we summon both 

our houses 
To take this absolution from your 

.\nd be regather'd to the Papal fold } 
Pole. In Britain's calendar the 
brightest day 

Beheld our rough forefathers break 
their Gods, 

And clasp the faith in Christ ; but 
after that 

Might not St. Andrew's be her hap- 
piest day .' 
Mary. Then these shall meet 
upon St. Andrew's day. 



Pole. I am an old man wearied 
with my journey, 
Ev'n with my joy. Permit me to 

withdraw. 
To Lambeth ? 

Philip. Ay, Lambeth has ousted 
Cranmer. 




Queen Mary. 



as not meet the heretic swine 
should live 
In Lambeth. 
Mary. There or anywhere, or at all. 
Philip. We have had it swept and 

garnish'd after him. 
PoU. Not for the seven devils to 

enter in } 
Philip. No, for we trust they 

parted in the swine. 
Pole. True, and I am the Angel of 
the Pope. 
Farewell, your Graces. 

Philip. Nay, not here — tome; 

[ will go with you to the waterside. 
Pole. Not be mv Charon to the 



Philip. No, my Lord Legate, the 

Lord Chancellor goes. 
Pole. And unto no dead world; 
but Lambeth palace. 
Henceforth a centre of the living 
faith. 
\Exeuut Philip, Pole, Paget, etc. 



Manet Mary. 
Mary. He hath awaked! he hath 

awaked ! 
He stirs within the darkness ! 
Oh, Philip, husband ! now thy love 

to mine 
Will cling more close, and those bleak 

manners thaw. 
That make me shamed aad tongue- 
tied ill my love. 
The second Prince of Peace — 
The great unborn defender of the 

Faith, 
Who win avenge me of mine enemies — 
He comes, and mv star rises. 
The stormy Wyatts and Northumber- 

lands, 
The proud ambitions of Elizabeth, 
And all her fieriest partisans — are 

pale 
Before my star ' 
The light of this new learning wanes 

and dies: 
The ghost of Luther and Zuinglius 

fade 
Into the deathless hell which is their 

doom 





Before my star ! 

His sceptre shall go forth from Ind to 
Ind! 

His sword shall hew the heretic peo- 
ples down ! 

His faith shall clothe the world that 
will be his, 

Like universal air and sunshine I 
Open, 

Ye everlasting gates ! The King is 
here ! — 

My star, my son ! 

Enter Philip, Duke of Alva, etc. 
Oh, Philip, come with me ; 

Good news have I to tell you, news to 
make 

Both of us happy — ay, the Kingdom 
too. 

Nav come with me — one moment I 
Philip (to Alva). More than 

that : 

There was one here of late — William 
the Silent 

They call him— he is free enough in 
talk, 

But tells me nothing. You will be, 
we trust. 

Sometime the viceroy of those prov- 
inces — 

He must deserve his surname better. 
Ah'a. Ay, sir ; 

Inherit the Great Silence. 
Philip. True ; the provinces 

Are hard to rule and must be hardly 
ruled; 

Most fruitful, vet, indeed, an empty 
rind, • 

All hollow'd out wiKh stinging here- 
sies; 

And for their heresies, Alva, they 
will fight; 

You must break them or they break 



vou. 



Alva {proudly). 

Philip. Good ! 

Well, Madam, thii 



The first. 



Enter Three Pages. 
First Page. News, mates I a mira- 
cle, a miracle I news 





The bells must ring; Te Deums must 

be sung ; 
The Queen hath felt the motion of her 

babe! 
ScroiiJ Ptige. Ay ; but see here ! 



Fir 



See what? 



Scroll J Page. This paper, Dickon. 
I found it fluttering at the palace 

gates :— 
' The Queen of England is delivered 
of a dead dog ! ' 
T/iirJ Page. These are the tilings 
that madden her. Fie upon it ! 
First Page. Ay ; but I hear she 
hath a dropsy, lad. 
Or a high-dropsy, as the doctors call it. 
Third Page. Fie on her dropsy, so 
she have a dropsy ! 
I know that she was ever sweet to me. 
First Page. For thou and thine are 

Roman to the core. 
Third Pai,'e. .So thou and thine 

must be. Take heed ! 

First Page. Not I, 

And whether this flash of news be 

false or true, 
So the wine run, and there be revelry, 
Content am I. Let all the steeples 

clash. 
Till the sun dance, as upon Easter 
Dav. [Exeunt. 



At the far end a dias. On this three 
ehairs, two under one canopy for 
Marv and PHILIP, another on the 
right of these for Pole. Under 
the dais on Pole's side^ ranged 
along the wall, sit all the Spirit- 
ual Peers, and along the wall 
opposite, all the Temporal. The 
' Commons on cross benches in front, 
a line of approach to the dais be- 
tween them. In the foreground. 
Sir Ralph Bagenhall and other 
Members of the Commons. 

First Member. St. Andrew's day ; 
sit close, sit close, we are 
friends. 




Is reconciled the word.' the Pope 

again.' 
It must be thus ; and yet, cocksbody ! 

how strange 
That Gardiner, once so one with all of 

Against this foreign marriage, should 

have yielded 
So utterly I — strange ! but stranger 

still that he, 
So fierce against the Headship of the 

Pope, 
Should play the second actor in this 

pageant 
That brings him in ; such a cameleon 

he! 
Second Member. This Gardiner 

turn'd his coat in Henry's time ; 
The serpent that hath slough'd will 

slough again. 
Third Member. Tut, then we all 

are serpents. 
Second Member. Speak for your- 
self. 
Third Member. Ay, and for Gardi- 
ner! being English citizen. 
How should he bear a bridegroom 

out of Spain ? 
The Queen would have him ! being 

English churchman 
How should he bear the headship of 

the Pope ? 
The Queen would have it ! States- 
men that are wise 
Shape a necessity, as a sculptor clay. 
To their own model. 
Second Member. Statesmen that 

are wise 
Take truth herself for model. What 

say you ? 

\To Sir Ralph Bagenhall. 
Bagenhall. We talk and talk. 
First Member. Ay, and what use 

to talk.' 
Philip's no sudden alien — the Queen's 

husband, 
He's here, and king, or will be — yet 

cocksbody ! 
So hated here! I watch'd a hive of late; 
My seven-years' friend was with me, 

my young boy ; 
Out crept a wasp, with half the swarm 

behind. 





Quuii Mary. 



had to cuff the 



But thev sav that 



rogue 
For infant 

Third Member. 

bees, 
If any creeping life invade tlieir hive 
Too gross to be thrust out, will build 

him round. 
And bind him in from harming of 

their combs. 
And Philip by these articles is bound 
From stirring hand or foot to wrong 

the realm. 
Second Member. By bonds of bees- 
wax, like your creeping thing ; 
But your wise bees had stung him 

first to death. 
Third Meviher. Hush, hush ! 
You wrong the Chancellor : the 

clauses added 
To that same treaty which the em- 
peror sent us 
Were mainly Gardiner's : that no 

foreigner 
Hold office in the household, fleet, 

forts, army ; 
That if the Quee'n should die without 

a child. 
The bond between the kingdoms be 

dissolved ; 
That Philip should not mix us any way 
With his French wars — 
Second Member. Ay, ay, but 

what security, 

Good sir, for this, if Philip 

Third Member. Peace— the Queen, 
Philip, and Pole. \All rise, and stand. 

Enter Mary, Philip, and Pole. 
[Gardiner conducts them to the 
three chairs of state. Philip sits 
on the Queen's left, Pole ok her 
right. 
Gardiner. Our short-lived sun, be- 
fore his winter plunge. 
Laughs at the last red leaf, and 
Andrew's Day. 
Mary. Should not this day be 
held in after years 
More solemn than of old ? 

Philip. Madam, my wish 

Echoes your Majesty':;. 





Pole. It shall be so. 

Gardiner. Mine echoes both your 
Grace's ; (aside) but the 
Pope- 
Can we not have the Catholic church 

as well 
Without as with the Italian .' if we 

cannot, 
Why tlten the Pope. 

My lords of the upper house. 
And ye, my masters, of the lower 

Do ye stand fast by that which ye re- 
solved .' 
Voices. We do. 

Gardiner. And be you all one 
mind to supplicate 

The Legate here for pardon, and ac- 
knowledge 

The primacy of the Pope .' 

Voices. We are all one mind. 

Gardiner. Then must I play the 
vassal to this Pole. [Aside. 

[He draws a paper from under his 
robes and presents it to the King 
and Queen, who look throtii;h it 
and returti it to him : then as- 
cends a tribune, and reads. 

We, the Lords Spiritual and Tem- 
poral, 

And Commons here in Parliament as- 
sembled, 

Presenting the whole body of this 
realm 

Of England, and dominions of the 
same. 

Do make most humble suit unto vour 
Majesties, 

In our own name and that of all the 

That by your gracious means and in- 
tercession 

Our supplication be exhibited 

To the Lord Cardinal Pole, sent here 
as Legate 

From our most Holv Father Julius, 
Pope, 

And from the Apostolic see of Rome ; 

And do declare our penitence and 
grief 

For our Im-j schism and disobedi- 
ence. 

Either in making laws and ordinances 




Qumi Ma 



Against the Holy Father's primacy, 
else by doing or by speaking 
aught 

Which might impugn or prejudice the 
same ; 

By this our supplication promising, 

As well for our own selves as all the 
realm. 

That now we be and ever shall be 
quick. 

Under and with your Majesties' au- 
thorities, 

To do to the utmost all that in us lies 

Towards the abrogation and repeal 

Of all such laws and ordinances 
made; 

Whereon we humbly pray your Maj- 

offence. 



That we the rather by your interces- 
sion 
May from the Apostolic see obtain, 
Thro' this most reverend Father, ab- 
solution. 
And full release from danger of all 

censures 
Of Holy Church that we be fall'n into. 
So that we may, as children penitent. 
Be once again received into the 

And unity of Universal Church ; 
And that'this noble realm thro' after 

years 
May in this unity and obedience 
Unto the holy see and reigning Pope 
Serve God and both your Majesties. 
Voia-s. Amen. \All sit. 

\Hc ai^ain prc'scnts the petition to 

the King and Queen, who hand 

it reverentially to Pole. 
Pole (sittiiix'). This is the loveliest 

day that ever smiled 
On England. All her breath should, 

incenselike. 
Rise to the heavens in grateful praise 

of Him 
Who now recalls her to His ancient 

fold. 
Lo! once again God to this realm 

hath ; 

A token of His more especial Grace ; 





For as this people were the first of all 

The islands call'd into the dawning 
church 

Out of the dead, deep night of hea- 
thendom. 

So now are these the first whom God 
hath given 

Grace to repent and sorrow for their 
schism ; 

And if your penitence be not mockery. 

Oh how the blessed angels who re- 
joice 

Over one saved do triumph at this 
hour 

In the reborn salvation of a land 

So noble. [A pause. 

For ourselves we do protest 

That our commission is to heal, not 
harm ; 

We come not to condemn, but recon- 
cile ; 

We come not to compel, but call 
again ; 

We come not to destroy, but edify; 

Nor yet to question things already 
done ; 

These are forgiven — matters of the 
past — 

And range with jetsam and with offal 
thrown 

Into the blind sea of forgetfulness. 
\ A pause. 

Ve have reversed the attainder laid 

By him who sack'd the house of 

God ; and we, 
Amplier than any field on our |ioor 



Can render thanks in fru 



being 



Do here and now repay you sixty-fold, 

A hundred, vea, a thousand thousand- 
fold, ' 

With heaven for earth. 

[^Rising and stretchins^ forth his 
hands. All kneel but Sir Ralph 
Bagenhall, who rises and re- 
mains standins;. 
The Lord who hath redeem'd us 

With His own blood, and wash'd us 
from our sins. 

To purchase for Himself a stainless 
bride ; 





Queen Ma 



He, whom the Father hath appointed 
Head 

Of all his church, He by His mercy 
absolve you ! \A fnuse. 

And we by that authority Apostolic 

Given unto us, his Legate, by the 
Pope, 

Our Lord and Holy Father, Julius. 

God's Vicar and Vicegerent upon 
earth. 

Do here absolve you and deliver you 

And every one of you, and all the 
realm 

And its dominions from all heresy, 

All schism, and from all and every 
censure. 

Judgment, and pain accruing there- 
upon ; 

And also we restore you to the bosom 

And unity of Universal Church. 

[ Turning to Gardiner. 

Our letters of commission will declare 
this plainleir. 
[Queen heard sobbing. Cries of 
Amen ! Amen ! Some of the 
Members embrace one another. 
All but Sir Ralph Bagenhall 
pass out into the neighboring 
chapel whence is heard the Te 
Dcum. 
Bagenhall. We strove against the 
papacy from the first, 

Li William's time, in our first Ed- 



And 



ward's 
n my n 
now. 



Henry's time ; but 



The unity of Universal Church, 

Mary would have it; and this Gardi- 
ner follows ; 

The unity of Universal Hell, 

Philip would have it ; and this Gardi- 
ner follows ! 

A Parliament of imitative apes ! 

.Sheep at the gap which Gardiner 
takes, who not 

Believes the Pope, nor any of them 
believe— 

These spaniel-Spaniard English of the 



Who rub their fawning noses in 

dust, 
For that is Philip's gold-dust, 

adore 





This Vicar of their Vicar. Would I 

had been 
Born Spaniard ! I had held my head 

up then. 

I am ashamed that I am Bagenhall, 
English. 

Enter OFFICER. 
Officer. Sir Ralph Bagenhall! 
Bagenhall. What of that? 

Officer. You were the one sole man 
in either house 

;ood u 
houses 

Bagenhall. The houses fell ! 
Officer. I mean the houses knelt 
Before the Legate. 
Bagenhall. Do not scrimp 

your phrase. 
But stretch it wider ; say when Eng- 
land fell. 
Officer. I say you were the one 

sole man who stood. 
Bagenhall. I am the one sole man 
in either house, 
Perchance in England, loves her like 
a son. 
Officer. Well, you one man, be- 
cause you stood upright, 
Her Grace the Queen commands you 
to the Tower. 
Bagenhall. As traitor, or as here- 
tic, or for what ? 
Officer. If any man in any way 
would be 
The one man, he shall be so to his cost. 
Bagenhall. What! will she have 

my head .' 
Officer. A round fine likelier. 

Your pardon. {Calling to Attendant. 
By the river to the Tower. 

[£.x-ennt. 




Queen Man 



have lost the 



Against our royal 

heads 
Wherewith they plotted in their trea- 
sonous malice, 
Have taik'd together, and are well 

agreed 
That those old statutes touching 

LoUardism 
To bring the heretic to the stake. 

should be 
No longer a dead letter, but requick- 

en'd. 
One of the Council. Why, what liath 

fluster'd Gardiner ? how he rubs 
His forelock ! 
Paget. I have changed a word with 

him 
In coming, and may change a word 

Gardiner. Madam, your Highness 

is our sun, the King 
And you together our two suns in one ; 
And so the beams of both may shine 

upon us, 
The faith that seem'd to droop will 

feel your light, 
Lift head, and flourish ; yet not light 

alone, 
There must be heat — tliere must be 

heat enough 
To scorch and wither heresy to the 

For wliat saith Christ ? ' Com[)el 

them to come in.' 
.\nd what saith Paul ? ' I would they 

were cut off 
That trouble you.' Let the dead 

Trace it in fire, that all the louts to 

whom 
Their A B C is darkness, clowns and 

grooms 
May read it! so you quash rebellion 

For heretic and traitor are all one : 
Two vipers of one breed — an amphis- 

baena, 
Each end a sting : Let the dead 

Pastel. Yet there be some disloyal 
Catholics, 
.Viid many heretics loyal; heretic 
throats 




Cried no God-bless-her to t 

Jane, 
But shouted in Queen Mary. So 



the 



be 




there 



.Some traitor-hereti( 

cord. 
To take the lives of others thatareloyal. 
And by the churchman's pitiless doom 

of fire. 
Were but a thankless policy in the 

crown. 
Ay, and against itself; for there are 



I out heresy, 



Mary. If we could bu 
my Lord Paget, 
We reck not tho' we lost this crown 

of England — 
Ay! tho' it were ten Englands! 

Gardiner. Right, your Grace. 

Paget, you are all for tliis poor life of 

And care but little for the life to be. 
Paget. I have some time, for 
curiousness, my Lord, 
Watch'd children playing at //;<•;> life 



Ga 

They 

Pa. 



i>t reach'd right 

hildren ! 

eir pleasure and 



They kill'd but for 

the power 
They felt in killing. 

Gardiner. A spice of Satan, ha 
Why, good! what then? granted!— 

we are fallen creatures ; 
Look to vour Bible, Paget ! we are 

fallen. 
Paget. I am but of the laitv. my 

Lord Bishop, 
And may not read your Bible, yet I 

found 
One dav, a wholesome scripture. 

'Little children. 
Love one another.' 

Gardiner. Did you find a scripture, 
' I come not to bring peace but a 

sword ' ? The sword 





QuMi Mary. 



ler Gr 
Pagel, 
Vou stand up here to fight for heresy, 
Vou are more than guess'd at as a 

heretic, 
And on the steep-up track of the true 

faith 
Your lapses are far seen. 
Paget. The faultless Gardiner ! 

speak, Lord Legate ! 
Pole. Indeed, I cannot follow with 

your Grace : 
Rather would sa'v — the shepherd doth 

not kill 
The sheep that wander from his fiock, 

but sends 
His careful dog to bring thein to the 

fold. 
Look to the Netherlands, wherein 

have been 
Such holocausts of heresy ! to what 

end ? 
For yet the faith is not established 

there. 
Gardiner. The end's not come. 
Pole. No — nor this way 

will come, 
Seeing there lie two ways to every end, 
A better and a worse — the worse is 

here 
To persecute, because to persecute 
Makes a faith hated, and is further- 
more 
No perfect witness of a perfect faith 
In him who persecutes : when men 

are tost 
On tides of strange opinion, and not 

sure 
Of their own selves, they are wroth 

with their own selves, 
And thence with others ; then, who 

lights the faggot ? 
Not the full faith, no, but the lurking 

doubt. 
Old Rome, that first made martyrs in 

the Church, 
Trembled for her own gods, for these 

were trembling — 
But when did our Rome tremble ? 

Pa^et. Did she not 

In Henry's time and Edward's ? 
Pole. ' What, my Lord! 





The Church on Peter's rock ? never ! 

I have seen 
A pine in Italy that cast its shadow 
Athwart a cataract; firm stood the 

pine— 
The cataract shook the shadow. To 

The cataract typed the headlong 

plunge and fall 
Of heresy to the pit : the pine was 

Rome. 
You see, my Lords, 
It was the shadow of the Church that 

trembled ; 
Your church was but the shadow of a 

church, 
Wanting the Papal mitre. 

Gardiner [muttering). Here be 

tropes. 
Pole. And tropes are good to clothe 

a naked truth, 
And make it look more .seemly. 

Gardiner. Tropes again ! 

Pole. You are hard to please. 

Then without tropes, my Lord, 
An overiTiuch severeness, f repeat. 
When faith is wavering makes the 

waverer pass 
Into more settled hatred of the doc- 
trines 
Of those who rule, which hatred by 

and by 
Involves the ruler (thus there springs 

to light 
That Centaur of a monstrous Com- 
mon-weal, 
The traitor-heretic) then tho' some 

may quail, 
Yet others are that dare the stake and 



And their strong torment brav 

borne, begets 
An admiration and an indignation. 
And hot desire to imitate; so 

plague 
Of schism spreads ; were there 

three or four 
Of these misleaders, yet I would 

say 
Burn ! and we cannot burn whole 

towns ; they are many, 
As my Lord Paget says. 

Gardiner. Yet my Lord Cardinal— 





our Legate ; please 
you let me finish. 

Methinks that under our Queen's 
regimen 

We might go softlier than with crim- 
son rowel 

And streaming lash. When Herod- 
Henry first 

Began to batter at your English 
Church, 

This was the cause, and hence the 
judgment on her. 

She seethed with such adulteries, and 
the lives 

Of many among your churchmen 
were so foul 

That heaven wept and earth blush'd. 
I would advise 

That we should thoroughly cleanse 
the Church within 

Before these bitter statutes be re- 
quicken'd. 

So after that when she once more is 
seen 

White as the light, the spotless bride 
of Christ, 

Like Christ himself on Tabor, possi- 
bly 

The Lutheran may be won to her 
again ; 

Till when, my Lords, I counsel toler- 

GarJiiier. What, if a mad dog bit 

your hand, my Lord, 
Would you not chop the bitten finger 

off, 
Lest your whole body should madden 

with the poison ? 
I would not, were I Queen, tolerate 

the heretic, 
No, not an hour. The ruler of a land 
Is bounden by his power and place to 

see 
His people be not poison'd. Tolerate 

them ! 
Why ? do they tolerate you ? Nay, 

many of them 
Would burn— have burnt each other; 

they not 
The one true faith, a loathsome idol- 
worship? 
Beware, Lord Legate, of a heavier 

crime 





Mary. 



Than heresy ic itself; beware, I say. 
Lest men accuse you of indifference 
To all faitll^. all religion ; for you 

Right well that you yourself have 
been supposed / 

Tainted with Lutheranism in Italy. ' ' 
Pole {fingered). But you, my Lord, 
beyond all supposition. 

In clear and open day were congruent 

With that vile Cranmer in the ac- 
cursed lie 

Of good Queen Catharine's divorce — 
the spring 

Of all those evils that have flow'd 
upon us; 

For you yourself have truckled to the 
tyrant. 

And done your best to bastardize our 
Queen, 

For which God's righteous judgment 
fell upon you 

In your five years of imprisonment, 
my Lord, 

Under young Edward. Who so bol- 

The gross King's headship of the 

Church, or more 
Denied the Holy Father I 

G.tnUner. Ha! what! eh? 

But you, my Lord, a polish'd gentle- 
man, 
A bookman, flying from the heat and 

tussle. 
You lived among your vines and 

oranges. 
In your soft Italy yonder ! You were 

sent for. 
You were appeal'd to, but you still 

preferr'd 
Your learned leisure. As for what I 

did 
I suffer'd and repented. Vou, Lord 

Legate 
And Cardinal-Deacon, have not now 

That ev'n St. Peter in his time of fear 
Denied his Master, ay, and thrice, my 
Lord. 
Pole. But not for five-and-twenty 

years, my Lord. 
Gardiner. Ha ! good ! it seems 
then I was summon'd hither 














.^1^1 1 1^ ? 1 ^4:r 






1 


SCENE IV. Queen 


Mary. 255 




But to be mock'd and baited. Speak, 


Your violence and much roughness to 




- ■ friend Bonner, 


the Legate, 








And tell this learned Legate he lacks 


Have shut you from our counsels. 








do zeal. 


Cousin Pole, «^ 






The Church's evil is not as the King's, 


You are fresh from brighter lands. 






Cannot be heal'd by stroking. The 


Retire with me. 






mad bite 


His Highness and myself (so you al- 






Must have the cautery— tell him— and 


low us) 






at once. 


Will let you learn in peace and pri- 






What would'st thou do hadst thou his 


vacy 






power, thou 


What power this cooler sun of Eng- 






That layest so long in heretic bonds 


land hath 






with me ; 


In breeding godless vermin. And 






Would'st thou not burn and blast 


pray Heaven 






them root and branch .' 


That you may see according to our 






Bonner. Ay, after you, my Lord. 
Ganihier. Nay, God's passion, be- 








Come 'cfusin 






fore me ! speak ! 


[Exennf Queen ami Pole, etc. 






Bonner. I am on fire until I see 


Gardiner. Pole has the Plantage- 






them flame. 


net face. 






Gardiner. Ay, the psalm-singing 


But not the force made them our 






weavers, cobblers, scum — 


mightiest kings. 






But this most noble prince Plantage- 


Fine eves— but melancholy, irreso- 






net, 


lute— 






Our good Queen's cousin — dallying 


A fine beard, Bonner, a very full fine 






over seas 


beard. 






Even when his brother's, nay, his 


But a weak mouth, an indeterminate 






noble mother's, 


—ha? 






Head fell- 


Bonner. Well, a weak month, per- 






Fole. Peace, madman ! 


chance. 






Thou stirrest up a grief thou canst 


Gardiner. And not like thine 






not fathom. 


To gorge a heretic whole, roasted or 






Thou Christian Bishop, thou Lord 


raw. 






Chancellor 


Bonner. I'd do my best, my Lord ; 






Of England ! no more rein upon thine 


but yet the Legate 






anger 


Is here as Pope and Master of the 






Than any child! Thou mak'st me 


Church, 






much ashamed 


And if he go not with you— 






That I was for a moment wroth at 


Gardiner. Tut, Master Bisho]}, 






thee. 


Our bashful Legate, saw'st not how 






Alary. I come for counsel and ye 


he fiush'd t 






give me feuds, 


Touch him upon his old heretical 






Like dogs that set to watch their mas- 


talk. 






ter's gate, 


He'll burn a diocese to prove his or- 






Fall, when the thief is ev'n within the 


thodoxy. 






walls. 


And let him' call me truckler. In 






To worrying one another. My Lord 


those times, 






«1p Chancellor, 


Thou knowest we had to dodge, or "^ 








You have an old trick of offending us ; 


duck, or die; J 








And but that you are art and part 


I kept my head for use of Holy 








with us 


Church; 








In purging heresy, well we might, for 


And see you, we shall have to dodge 






r 


this 


again. 




^ 


3 1 13 


^1 1 LiJy 























jS 






>n1 


J^^H r-3 


% — 1 )— f*l 






■ 3515 e'«'« 


Mary. act hi. - 


a 


And let the Pope trample our rights. 


Men now are bow'd and old, the doc- 






and plunge 


tors tell you, 


. 






Hisforeien fist into our island Church 


At three-score vears ; then if we 






tAfl To plump the leaner pouch of Italy. 


change at all Oc: 




For a time, for a time. 


We needs nuist do it i|uicklv; it is an 




Why? that these statutes may be put 


age 




in turce 


Of brief life, and brief purpose, and 




Aud that his fan may thoroughly 


brief patience. 




purge his floor. 


As I have shown to-dav. I am sorrv 




Bonner. So then you hold the 


for it 




Pope— 


If Pole be like to turn. Our old 




Gardiner. I hold the Pope ! 


friend Cranmer, 




What do I hold him ? what do I hold 


Your more especial love, hath turn'd 




the Pope ? 


so oftenf 




Come, come, the morsel stuck— this 


He knows not where he stands, which. 




Cardinal's fault— 


if this pass. 




I have gulpt it down. I am wholly 


We two shall have to teach him ; let 




for the Pope, 


'em look to it. 




Utterly and altogether for the Pope, 
The Eternal Peter of the changeless 


Cranmer and Hooper, Ridlev and 




Latimer, 




chair. 


Rogers and Ferrar, for their time is 




Crown'd slave of slaves, and mitred 


come, 




king of kings. 


Their hour is hard at hand, their ' dies 




God upon earth ! what more ? what 


lr;e,' 




would you have I 


Their -dies Ilia,' which will test their 




Hence, let's be gone. 


sect. 
I feel it but a duty— you will find in it 




Enter USHER. 


Pleasure as well as duty, worthy Bon- 




Usher. Well that you be not gone, 


To test their sect. Sir, I attend the 




My Lord. The Queen, most wroth 


Queen 




at first with you. 


To crave most humble pardon— of her 




Is ,>ovv content t6 grant you full for- 






oiveness, 


Roy.il, Infallible, Papal Legate-cousin. 




So thafvou crave full pardon of the 


\Exennt. 




Legate. 






I am sent to fetch von. 






GarJuier. Doth Pole yield, sir, ha! 


SCENE v.— WoonsTocK. 




Did you hear 'em? were vou l)v? 






Usher. I camiot tell vou, 


Eliz.-^beth, Lady in Waiting. 




His bearing is so courtly-delicate'; 






Aird yet methinks he falters : their two 


Elizabeth. So they have sent poor 




Graces 


Courtenay over sea. 




Do so dear-cousin and royal-cousin 


Lady. And banish'd us to Wood- 






stock, and the fields. 




So press on him the duty which as 


The colors of our Queen are green 




Legate 


and white, 




'Y» He owes himself, and with such roval 


These fields are only green, thev 'X 




Iw 


smiles— 


make me gape. 






][ 


Gardiner. Smiles th.tt burn men. 


Elizalk-th. There's whitetluirn, girl. 








Bonner, it will be carried. 


Ladv. Av, for an hour in i\'lav. 








He falters, ha. > 'fore God, we change 


P.ut court is aKvays May. l>nds out in 






1 


and change : 


., M 


] 


3-t 1 2 I \ 1 L'iVI 1 










' 




\ 




Queen Mary. 



Dieaks into feather'd merriments, and 
flowers 

In silken pageants. Why do they 
keep us here ? 

Why still suspect your Grace ? 
Elizabeth. Hard upon both. 

1 Writes on the wiiiJo-co with a dia- 
mond. 

Much suspected, of me 
Nothing proven can be. 

Quoth Elizabeth, prisoner. 

Ladv. What hath your Highness 
^written.' 

Elizabeth. A true rhyme. 

Lady. Cut with a diamond; so to 
last like truth. 

Elizabeth. Ay, if truth last. 

Ladv. But truth, they say, will out, 
So it must last. It is not like a word. 
That comes and goes in uttering. 

Elizabeth. Truth, a word ! 

The very Truth and very Word are 

But truth of story, which I glanced at 
girl. 

Is like a word that comes from olden 
days, 

And passes thro' the peoples : every 
tongue 

Alters it passing, till it spells and 
speaks 

Quite other than at first. 

Lady. 1 do not follow. 

Elizabeth. How many names in the 
long sweep of time 

That so foreshortens greatness, may 
but hang 

On the chance mention of some fool 
that once 

Brake bread with us, perhaps : and my 
poor chronicle 

Is but of glass. Sir Henry Beding- 
field 

May split it for a spite. 

Lady. God grant it last. 

And witness to your Grace's inno- 
cence, 

Till doomsday melt it. 

Elizabeth. ' Or a second fire, 

Like that which lately crackled under- 
foot 





.-\nd in this very chamber, fuse theglass, 
And char us back again into the dust 
We spring from. Never peacock 

against rain 
Scream'd as you did for water. 

Lady. And I got it. 

I woke Sir Henry— and he's true to 

I read his honest horror in his eyes. 
Elizabeth. Or true to you .' 
Lady. Sir Henry Bedingfield ! 

I will have no man true to me, your 

Grace, 
But one that pares his nails ; to me ? 
the clown ! 
Elizabeth. Out, girl ! vou wrong a 

noble gentleman. ' 
Lady. For, like his cloak, his man- 
ners want the nap 
And gloss of court ; but of this fire he 



•icked wilful- 

; — perchance 
uls that men 

ure. Nay, I 



says, 

ness. 
Only a natural chance. 
iLlizabeth. A chan 
One of those wicked wi 

make, 
Nor shame to call it n 

know 
They hunt my blood. Save for my 

daily range 
Among the pleasant fields of Holy 

Writ 
I might despair. But there hath some 

one come ; 
The house is all in movement. Hence, 

and see. {Exit Lady. 



Milkn 



id {singing without). 



Shame upon you, Robin, 

Shame upon you now ! 
Kiss me would you ? with my hands 

Milking the cow? 

Daisies grow again, 

Kingcups blow again. 
And you came and kiss'd me milking t 





Queen Mary. 



Come, Robin, Robin, 

Come and kiss me now ; 
Help it can I ? vvilh my hands 

Milking the cow ? 

Ringdoves con again, 

All things wuo again. 
Come behind and kiss me milking the 



Elizabeth. Right honest and red- 
cheek'd ; Robin was violent, 
And she was ciafty — a sweet violence, 
And a sweet ciaft. I would I were a 



bake, a 
Then have m 

the chi 
And all thin 



rry, churn, brew, 

pie headstone by 

;d and ended hon- 
estly. 

I could not if I would. I am Harrv's 
daughter: 

Gardiner would have my head. They 
are not sweet. 

The violence and the craft that do 



divide 



The wo 

m 

The lion 



, of 



roar to guard his 
savs ' here ' when 



young ; 
The lapwing lies, s 

they are there. 
Threaten the child ; ' I'll scourge you 

if you did it: ' 
What weapon hath the child, save his 

soft tongue. 
To say ' I did not .' ' and my rod's the 

block. 
I never lay mv head upon the pillow 
But that I thi'nk, ' Wilt thou lie there 



How oft the falling a.xe, that never fell. 

Hath shock'd me back into the day- 
light truth 

That it may fall to-day ! Those damp, 
black, dead 

Nights in the Tower ; dead — with the 
fear of death 

Too dead ev'n for a death-watch ! Toll 
of a bell, 





Stroke of a c 
Affrighted i 



in death— 
The little murder'd princes, in a pale 

light. 
Rose hand in hand, and whisper'd, 

' come away ! 
The civil wars are gone for evermore : 
Thou last of all the Tudors, come 

away ! 
With us is peace!' The last.' It 

was a dream ; 
I must not dream, not wink, but 

watch. She has gone, 
Maid Marian to her Robin — by and 

by 
Both happy ! a fox may filch a hen by 

night, 
And make a morning outcry in the 

yard ; 
But there's no Renard here to ' catch 

her tripping.' 
Catch me who can ; yet, sometime I 

have wish'd 
That I were caught, and kill'd away 

at once 
Out of the flutter. The grav rogue, 

Gardiner, " 

Went on his knees, and pray'd me 

to confess 
In Wvatt's business, and to cast my- 

'self 
Upon the good Queen's mercy ; ay, 

when, my Lord .' 
God save the Queen ! My jailor — 

Enter Sir Henry Bedingfield. 

Bediiigfietd. One, whose bolts, 

That jail you from free life, bar you 

from death. 
There haunt some Papist ruffians here- 
about 
Would murder you. 

Elhiibeth. I thank you heartily, sir. 
But I am royal, tho' your prisoner, 
And God hath blest or cursed me with 

a nose — 
Your boots are from the horses. 
Bedingfield. Ay, mv Lady. 





Queen Mary. 



When next there comes a missive 

from the Queen 
It shall be all my study for one hour 
To rose and lavender my horsiness, 
Before I dare to glance upon your 

Grace. 
Elizabeth. A missive from the 

Queen: last time she wrote, 
I had like to have lost my life : it 

takes my breath : 
O God, sir, do you look upon your 



Are vou so small a man ? 


Help me : 


what think vou, 




Is it life or death ? 




Bediiig_fi,ld. I thought 




boots ; 




The devil take all boots 


were ever 


made 




.Since man went barefoot. 


See, I lay 


it here. 




For I will come no near 


er to your 


Grace ; 




\Laving dtnt) 


n the letter. 


And, whether it bring you 


bitter news 



And God hath given your Grace a 

nose, or not, 
I'll help you, if I may. 

Elizabeth. Your pardon, then ; 

It is the heat and narrowness of the 

cage 
That makes the captive testy ; with 

free wing 
The world were all one Araby. 

Leave me now, 
Will you, companion to myself, sir.' 

Bediugfield. Will I ? 

With most exceeding willingness, I 

You know I never come till I be 

call'd. {Exit. 

Elizabeth. It lies there folded: is 

there venom in it .' 

A snake — and if I touch it, it may 

sting. 
Come, come, the worst ! 

idom is to know the worst at 
once. \Reads: 

is the King's wish, that vou 
-hould wed Prince Philibert of Savov. 
You are to come to Court on the in- 





nd think of this 



thoughts ; 
I think there may be birdlimi 

for me ; 
I think they fain would have me from 

the realm ; 
I think the Queen may never bear a 

child; 
I think that I mav be some time the 

Queen, 
Then, Queen indeed : no foreign 

prince or priest 
Should fill my throne, myself upon 

the steps. 
I think I will not marry anyone. 
Specially not this landless Philibert 
Of Savoy ; but, if Philip menace me, 
I think that 1 will play with Phili- 
bert,— 
As 



the Holy Father did with 

Before my father married my good 

mother, — 
For fear of Spain. 

Enter Lady. 
Lady. O Lord ! your Grace, your 
Grace, 
I feel so happy : it seems that we 

shall fly 
These bald, blank fields, and dance 

into the sun 
That shines on princes. 

Elizabeth. Yet, a moment since, 
I wish'd myself the milkmaid singing 

here. 
To kiss and cuff among the birds and 

flowers— 
A right rough life and healthful. 

Lady. But the wench 

Hath her own troubles ; she is weep- 



Then the cow kick'd, and all her 

was spilt. 
Your Highness such a milkmaid 
Elizabeth. I had 

My Robins and 





Qucai Mary. 



Had I been such. 

Ltuiy (../ivV). And had your Grace 



E/iz<ii'if/i. Come, come, you are 
chill here; you want the sun 

That shines at colirt ; make ready for 
the journey. 

Pray God, we 'scape the sunstroke. 
Ready at once. {Exeunt. 



Pclre. You cannot see the Queen. 

Renard denied her, 
Ev'n now to me. 

Hmvard. Their Flemish go-be- 
tween 
.\nd all-in-all. I came to thank her 

Majesty 
For freeing my friend Bagenhall from 

the Tower ; 
A grace to me ! Mercy, that herb-of- 

grace. 
Flowers now but seldom. 

Petre. Only now perhajis. 

Because the Queen hath been three 

days in tears 
For Philip's going — like the wild 

hedge-rose 
Of a soft winter, possible, not probable. 
However you have prov'n it. 
Hmuaril. I must see her. 



Enter Renard. 
Renard. My Lords, you cannot see 

her Majesty. 
Hoivard. Why then the King ! for 

I would have him bring it 
Home to the leisure wisdom of his 

Queen, 
Before he go, that since these statutes 

past, 
Gardiner out-Gardiners Gardiner in 

his heat, 
Bonner cannot out-Bonner his own 

self— 
Heast! — bnt they play with fire as 

children do. 





And burn the house. I know that 

these are breeding 
A fierce resolve and fi.\ ' 

men 
Against the King, the Queen, the 

Holy Father, 

The faith itself. Can I not see him } 

Renard. Not now. 

And in all this, my Lord, her Majesty 

Is flint of flint, you may strike fire 

from her. 
Not hope to melt her. I will give 

your message. 

\Exeunt Petre and Howard. 

Enter Philip [musing). 

Fhilif'. She will not have Prince 

Philibert of Savoy, 
I talk'd with her in vain — says she 

will live 
And die true maid — a goodly creature 

too. 
Would she had been the Queen ! yet 

she must have him ; 
She troubles England: that she 

breathes in England 
Is life and lungs to every rebel birth 
That passes out of embryo. 

Simon Renard! — 
This Howard, whom they fear, what 

was he saying ? 
Renard. Wfiat your imperial 

father said, my liege. 
To deal with heresy gentlier. Gardi- 
ner burns. 
And Bonner burns ; and it would 

seem this people 
Care more for our brief life in their 

wet land. 
Than yours in happier Spain. I told 

my Lord 
He should not ve.\ her Highness; she 

would say 
These are the means God works with, 

that His church 
May flourish. 

Philip. Ay, sir, but in statesman- 
ship 
To strike too soon is oft to miss the 

blow. 
Thou knowest I bad my chaplain, 

Castro, preach 





THE GIRL AND BOV, SIR, 



ENCES ! " Page /SO. 




Against these burnings. 

Renard. And the Emperor 

Approved you, and when last he 

wrote, declared 
His comfort in your Grace that you 

were bland 
And affable to men of all estates, 
In hope to charm them from their 

hate of Spain. 
Philip. In hope to crush all 



ider Spain, 
am si 
. could ; 



passmg 



Tho' I be ever deadly sick at sea. 
So sick am I with biding for this child. 
Is it the fashion in this clime for 

women 
To go twelve months in bearing of a 

child? 
The nurses yawn'd, the cradle gaped, 

they led 
Processions, chanted litanies, clash'd 

their bells. 
Shot off their lying cannon, and her 

priests 
Have preach'd, the fools, of this fair 

prince to come ; 
Till, by St. James, I find myself the 

fool. 
Why do you lift your eyebrow at me 

thus? 
Rennrd. I never saw your High- 
ness moved till now. 
Philip. So weary am I of this wet 

land of theirs. 
And every soul of man that breathes 

therein. 
Remird. My liege, we must not 

drop the mask before 
The masquerade is over — 

Philip. — Have I dropt it? 

I have but shown a loathing face to 

yor 
Who knei 



the first. 



Enli-y Mary. 

Mary {aside). With Renard. Still 

I'arleying with Kenard, all the day 

with Renard, 
And scarce a greeting all the day for 





Mary. 



And goes to-morrow. [Exit Mary. 

Philip (to Renard, who advances to 

him). Well, sir, is there more? 

Renard (who has perceived the 

Queen). May Simon Renard 

speak a single word ? 

Philip. Ay. 

Renard. And be forgiven for it ? 

Philip. Simon Renard 

Knows me too well to speak a single 

That could not be forgiven. 

Renard Well, iny liege. 

Your Grace hath a most chaste and 
loving wife. 
Philip. Why not? The Queen of 

Philip should be chaste. 
Renard. .\y, but. my Lord, you 
know what Vngil sings, 
Woman is various and most mutable. 
Philip. She play the harlot ! 

never. 
Renard. No, sire, no. 

Not dream "d of by the rabidest go.s- 

peller. 
There was a paper thrown into the 

palace, 
'The King iiath wearied of his barren 



She came upon it, 

rent it. 
With all the rage of 

truth 
He cannot but alio 

have vou— 
What should I say, 

words- 



read it, and then 
one who hates a 
IV. Sire, I would 
I cannot pick my 
majestic to your 



Be somewhat le 
Queen. 

Philip. Am I to change my man- 
ners, Simon Kenard, 

Because these islanders are brutal 
beasts ? 

Or would vou have me turn a sonnet- 



brief-sighted t 



And warble tho 
hers ? 
Renard. Brief-sighted tho' they be, 
• I have seen them, sire. 
When you perchance were trifling 

royally 
With some fair dame of court, sud- 
denly fill 





Queen Mary. 



-had it been fire 



With such fiei 
indeed 

It would have burnt both speakers. 
Philip. Ay, and then ? 

Rcnard. Sire, might it not be pol- 
icy in some matter 

Of small importance now and then to 
cede 

A point to her demand ? 

Philip. Well, I am going. 

Rcnaril. For should her love 

when you are gone, my liege. 

Witness these papers, there will not 
be wanting 

Those that will urge her injury — 
should her love — 

And I have known such women more 
than one — 

Veer to the counterpoint, and jeal- 
ousy 

Hath in it an alchemic force to fuse 

Almost into one metal love and 
hate, — 

And she impress her wrongs upon her 
Council, 

And these again upon her Parlia- 

We are not loved here, and would be 

then perhaps 
Not so well holpen in our wars with 

France, 
As else we might be — here she comes. 



Enter Mary. 
Mary. O Philip ! 

Nay, must you go indeed ? 

Philip. Madam, I must. 

Mary. The parting of a husband 
• and a wife 

Is like the cleaving of a heart ; one 

half 
Will flutter here, one there. 
Philip. You sav true. Madam. 

Mary. The Holy Virgin will not 
have me yet 
Lose the sweet hope that I may bear 

a prince. 
If such a prince were born and you 
not here ! 
Philip. I should be here if such a 

prince were born. 
Mary. But must you go .' 




Philip. Madam, you know my 

father, 
Retiring into cloistral solitude 
To yield the remnant of his years to 

heaven, 
Will shift the yoke and weight of all 




the 



rid 



From off his neck to mine. We meet 

at Brussels. 
But since mine absence will not be for 

long, 
Your Majesty shall go to Dover with 

And wait my coming back. 

Mary. To Dover .' no, 

I am too feeble. I will go to Green- 
wich, 
So you will have me with you; and 

there watch 
All that is gracious in the breath of 

heaven 
Draw with your sails from our poor 

land, and pass 
And leave me, Philip, with my 
prayers for you. 
Philip. And doubtless I shall 

profit by your prayers. 
Mary. Methinks that would you 
tarry one day more 
(The news was sudden) I could mould 

myself 
To bear your going better ; will you 
do it? 
Philip. Madam, a day may sink or 

save a realm. 
Mary. A day may save a heart 

from breaking too. 
Philip. Well, Simon Renard, shall 

we stop a day ? 
Renard. Your Grace's business 
will not suffer, sire. 
For one day more, so far as I can 
tell. 
Philip. Then one day more to 

please her Majesty.' 
Mary. The sunshine sweeps across 
my life again. 
O if I knew you felt this parting, 

PhUip, 
As I do. 

Philip. By St. James I do protest, 
Upon the faith and honor of a Span- 
iard, 





Queen Mary. 



I am vastly grieved t 

Majesty. 
Simon, is supper ready: 



\Exeunt. 



Mary, Cardinal Pole. 

Mary. Wliat have you there .' 
Pole. So please your Majesty, 

A long petition from the foreign exiles 
To spare the life of Cranmer. 

Bishop Thirlbv, 
And my Lord Paget' and Lord Wil- 
liam Howard, 
Crave, in the same cause, hearing of 

your Grace. 
Hath he not written himself — infat- 
uated — 
To sue vou for his life .' 

Mary. His life .' Oh, no ; 

Not sued for that — he knows it were 

in vain. 
But so much of the anti-papa! leaven 
Works in him yet, he hath prav'd me 

not to sully 
Mine own prerogative, and degrade the 

realm 
By seeking justice at a stranger's 

hand 
Against my natural subject. King 

and Queen, 
To whom he owes his lovaity after 

God, 
Shall these accuse him to a foreign 

prince ? 
Death would not grieve him more. I 

cannot be 
True to this realm of England and the 

Pope 
Together, says the heretic. 

Pale. And there errs ; 

As he hath ever err'd thro' vanity. 
.\ secular kingdom is but as the 

body 
.acking a soul ; and in itself a beast. 





The Holv Father in a Secul; 

dom 
Is as ihe soul descending oul 

heaven 
Into a body generate. 

.Mary. ' Write to him, then. 

Pole. I will. 

Marv. And sharply, Pole. 

Pole. Here come the C ranmeri tes ! 



Ho^mrd. Health to your Grace ! 
Good morrow, my Lord Cardi- 
nal ; 
We make our humble prayer unto 

your Grace 
That Cranmer may withdraw to for- 
eign parts, 
Or into private life within the realm. 
In several bills and declarations, 

Madam, 
He hath recanted all his heresies. 
Paget. Ay, av ; if Bonner have not 
forged the bills. {^Aside. 

Mary. Did not More die, and 

Fisher .' he must burn. 
Ho^oard. He hath recanted. 

Madam. 
Mary. The better for him. 

He burns in Purgatory, not in Hell. 
Howard. Ay, ay, your Grace ; but 
it was never seen 
That any one recanting thus at full, 
As Cranmer hath, came to the fire on 
earth. 
.Vary. It will be seen now, then. 
Thi'rlhy. O Madam, Madam ! 

I thus implore you, low upon my 



ch the hand of 



to 



ith him I 



I have err'd with hii 
have recanted. 

What human reason is there why my 
friend 

Should meet with lesser mercy than 
mvself? 
Mary.' My Lord of Ely, this. Af- 
ter a riot 

We hang the leaders, let their follow- 
ing go. 






i 




/C[TI 1 H-g 


Mary. act iv. 


? 


264 Queen 


Cvanmer is bead and father of these 


M.n-v. All your voices 




- ■■ heresies. 


Are waves on flint. The heretic must - - 


\ 




New learning as tliev call it ; yea, 


burn. 






^ may God 


Hmimrd. Yet once he saved vour <^ 






Forget me at most need when I for- 


Majesty's own life; 






get 


Stood out against the King in vour 






Her foul divorce— my sainted mother 


behalf. 






-No!- 


At his own peril. 






//«.w,v/. Ay, ay, but nnghty doc- 
tors doubted there. 


Mary. I know not if he did ; 






And if he did I care not. mv Lord 






The Pope himself waver'd ; and more 


Howard. 






than one 


Mv life is not so happy, no such boon. 






Row'd in that galley— Gardiner to 


Tliat I should spare to take a heretic 






wit. 


priest's. 






Whom truly I deny not to have been 


Who saved it or not saved. Why do 






Vour faithful friend and trustv coun- 


you vex me .' 






cillor. 


Pallet. Yet to save Cranmer were 


j 




H.ath not your Highness ever read 


to serve the Church, 






his book. 


Your Majesty's 1 mean ; he is effaced. 






His tractate upon True Obedience, 


Self-blotted out; so wounded in his 






Writ by himself and Bonner? 


honor. 






Maiy. I will take 


He can but creep down into some 






Such order with all bad, heretical 


dark hole 






books 


Like a hurt beast, and hide himself 






That none shall hold them in his 


and die ; 






house and live. 


liut if you burn him,— well, yottr High- 






Henceforward. No, my Lord. 


ness knows 






//cmiarJ. Then never read it. 


The saying, ' Martyr's blood— seed of 






The truth is here. Your father was a 


the Church.' 






man 


Miiry. Of the true Church; but 






Of such colossal kinghood, yet so 


his is none, nor will be. 








You are too politic for me, my Lord 






Except when wroth, you scarce could 


Paget. 






meet his eye 


And if he have to live so loath'd a life. 






And hold your own ; and were he 


It were more merciful to burn him 






wroth indeed, 


now. 






Von held it less, or not at all. 1 say. 


Thirlhy. O yet relent. O, Madam, 






Your father had a will that beat men 


if you knew him 






down ; 


As I do, ever gentle, and so gracious. 






Your father had a brain that beat men 


With all his learning— 






down— 


Mary. Yet a heretic still. 






fou: Not me, my Lord. 


His learning makes his burning the 






Hiivard. No, for you were not 


more just. 






here ; 


Thirlhy. So worshipt of all those 






You sit upon this fallen Cranmer's 


that came across hmi ; 






throne ; 


■Ihe stranger at his hearth, and all his 






^^ And it would more become you, my 


house- 






«Y* Lord Legate, 


Mary. His children and his concu- "T 








To join a voice, so potent with her 


bine, belike. 








Highness, 


Thirlhy. To do him anv wrong 








To ours in plea for Cranmer than to 


was to beget 








stand 


A kindness from him, for liis heart 






•-■ 


On naked self-assertion. 


was rich, 

I 1 1 B^ 











Queen Mary. 



Of such fine mould, that if you sovv'd 

theiehi 
The seed of Hate, it blossom'd Char- 

Polf. ' ' After his kind it costs him 
nothing,' there's 
An old world English adage to the 

These are but natural graces, mj- good 

Bishop, 
Which in the Catholic garden are as 

flowers, 
But on the heretic dunghill only 
weeds. 
Ncnoaii/. Such weeds make dung- 
hills gracious. 
Mary. Enough, my Lords. 

It is God's will, the Holy Father's will. 
And Philip's will, and mine, that he 

should burn. 
He is pronounced anathema. 

Houhini. Farewell, Madam, 

God ijrant you ampler mercy at your 

"call 
Than you have shown to Cranmer. 

{Exi'vnt Lords. 
Pole. .'\fter this, 

Your Grace will hardly care to over- 
look 
This same petition of the foreign e.\- 



iles 



For Crai 
Miiry. 



life. 



t to.nighl 
[Exeun. 



SCENE II. — O.XFORD. Cranmer 
IN Prison. 

Craitmer. Last night, I dream'd 

the faggots were alight. 
And that myself was fasten'd to the 

stake,' 
And found it all a visionary flame, 
Cool as the light in old decaying 

wood ; 
And then King Harry look'd from 

out a cloud. 
And bad me have good courage ; and 

I heard 
An angel cry 'There is more joy in 

Heaven,' — 
And after that, the trumpet of the 

dead. [ Trumpets without. 





Enter Father Cole. 
Cole. Cranmer, I come to t|uestion 
you again ; 
Have you remain'd in the true Catho- 
lic faith 
I left you in .' 

Craumer. In the true Catholic faith, 
By Heaven's grace, I am more and 

more confirm 'd. 
Why are the trumpets blowing, 
Father Cole ? 
Cole. Cranmer, it is decided by the 
Council 
That you to-day should read your re- 
cantation 
Before the people in St. Mary's 

Church. 
And there be many heretics in the 

Who loathe you for your late return 

to Rome, 
And might assail you passing through 

the street. ' 
And tear you piecemeal : so you have 
a guard. 
Cranmer. Or seek to rescue nie. 

I thank the Council. 
Cole. Do you lack any money? 
Cranmer. Nay, why should I .> 

The prison fare is good enough for 
me. 
Cole. Ay, but to give the poor. 
Cranmer. Hand it me, then \ 

I thank you. 

Cole. For a little space, farewell ; 

Until I see you in St. Mary's Church. 

\_Exit Cole. 

Cranmer. It is against all |irece- 

dent to burn 

One who recants; they mean to pai- 

don ine. 
To give the ])Oor — they give the pom 

who die. 
Well, burn me or not burn me I am 

fixt; 
It is but a communion, not a mass: 
.•\ holy supper, not a sacrifice ; 
No man can make his Maker — Vill:i 
Garcia. 





Enter ViLLA GARCIA. 

Vill<i Garcia. Pray you write out 

this paper for me, Cranmer. 
Crainner. Have I not writ enough 

to satisfy you ? 
Villa Garcia. It is the last. 
Cranmer. Give it me, then. 

iHe writes. 
Villa Garcia. Now sign. 

Cranmer. I have sign'd enough, 

and I will sign no more. 
Villa Garcia. It is no more than 
what you have sign'd already, 
The public form thereof. 

C. dinner. It may be so ; 

I Muii it with my presence, if 1 read it. 

Villa Garcia. But this is idle of 

you. Well, sir, well. 

You are to beg the people to pray 

for you ; 
E.\hort them to a pure and virtuous 

life; 
Declare the Queen's right to the 

throne ; confess 
Your faith before all hearers; and re- 

That Eucharistic doctrine in your 

book. 
Will you not sign it now .' 

Cranmer. No, Villa Garcia, 

I sign no more. Will they have 



Villa 



srcy 



Have you good 

hopes of mercy! .So, farewell. 

\_Exit. 

Cranmer. Good hopes, not theirs, 

have I that I am fi.\t, 

Fi.xt beyond fall ; however, in strange 

hours, 
After the long brain-dazing colloquies, 
And thousand-times recurring argu- 

Of those two friars ever in my prison. 
When left alone in my despondencv. 
Without a friend, a book, my faith 

would seem 
Dead or half-drown'd, or else swam 



•Vgainst the huge corruptions of the 

Church, ^ 
Monsters of mistradition, old enough 
To scare me into dreaming, ' what am I, 





Mary. 



Cranmer, against whole ages.' 

so. 
Or am I slandering my most inward 

friend, 
To veil the fault of my most outward 

foe — 
The soft and tremulous coward in the 

flesh? 

higher, holier, earlier, purer church, 

1 have found thee and nut leave thee 

any more. 
It is but a communion, not a mass — 
No sacrifice, but a life-giving feast ! 
( Writes.] So, so ; this will I say- 
thus will I pray. \Puts up the 
paper. 



Enter Bonner. 
Bonner. Good day, old friend ; 

what, you look somewhat 

worn ; 
And yet it is a day to test your 

health 
Ev'n at the best : I scarce have 

spoken with you 
Since when ? — your degradation. At 

your trial 
Never stood up a bolder man than 

you; 
You would not cap the Pope's com- 
missioner — 
Your learning, and your stoutness, 

and vour heresy, 
Dumbfounded half of us. So, after 

that. 
We had to dis-archbishop and unlord. 
And make you simple Cranmer once 

The common barber dipt your hair, 
and I 

Scraped from your finger-points the 
holy oil ; 

And worse than all, you had to kneel 
to me ; 

Which was not pleasant for you. Mas- 
ter Cranmer. 

Now you, that would not recog 



And you, that would not own the Real 

Presence, 
Have found a real presence in the 

stake. 





Which frights you back into the an- 
cient faith ; 

And so you have recanted to the 
Pope. 

How are the mighty fallen, Master 
Cranmer ! 
Craitmer. You have been more 
fierce against the Pope than I ; 

But why fiing back the stone he 
strikes me with? \^Aside. 

Bonner, if 1 ever did you kind- 

ness — 
Power hath been given you to try 

faith by fire- 
Pray you, remembering how yourself 

have changed, 
Be somewhat pitiful, after I have 

gone, 
To the poor flock — to women and to 

children — 
That when I was archbishop held with 

me. 
Bonner. Ay — gentle as they call 

you — live or die ! 
Pitiful to this pitiful heresy ? 

1 must obey the Oueen and Council, 

man. 

Win thro' this day with honor to your- 
self. 

And ril say something for you — so — 
good-bye. \Exit. 

Cranmer. This hard coarse man of 
old hath crouch'd to me 

Till I myself was half ashamed for 



Enter Thirlby. 

Weep not, good Thirlby, 

Thirlby. Oh, my Lord, my I.ord ! 
Mv heart is no such block as Bonner's 



Who would not weep.' 
Crtuimer. Why do you 



Who 


am disgraced .' 




Thirlby. 


On 


earth ; 


lUt 




heav 


en 






Cr. 


Thir 


by? 


'^•wiii 


they 


Th 


rlhv. 


Al 


IS, theN 


wi 






ngs 


will not 


help 



of the faith ; but my 
voice 
gainst them is a whisper to the roar 
■■ spring-tide. 
Cranmer. And they will surely 

Thirlby. Ay; and besides, will 

have you in the church 
Repeat youi recantation in the ears 
Of all men, to the saving of their souls. 
Before your execution. May God 

help you 
Thro' that hard hour! 

Cranmer. And may God bless you, 

Thirlby ! 
Well, they shall hear my recantation 

there. [£x// 1 hirlby. 

Disgraced, dishonor'd ! — not by them, 

indeed. 
By mine own self — bv mine own 

hand ! 
O thin-skinn'd hand and jutting veins, 

'twas you 
That sign'd the burning of poor Joan 

of Kent ; 
But then she was a witch. You have 

written much. 
But you were never raised to plead 

for Frith, 
Whose dogmas I have reach'd : he 

was deliver'd 
To the secular arm to burn ; and there 

was Lambert ; 
Who can foresee himself? truly these 

burnings. 
As Thirlby says, are profitless to the 

burners, 
And help the other side. You shall 

burn too. 
Burn first when I am burnt. 
Fire — inch by inch to die in agony ! 

Latimer 
Had a brief end— not Ridley. Hooper 

burn'd 
Three-quarters of an hour. Will my 

faggots 
Be wet as his were ? It is a dav of 



T will not muse upon it 
My fancy takes the bur 

makes 
The fire seem ev 





Queen Mary. 



No, I not doubt that God will give me 

strength, 
Albeit I have denied him. 

Soto ,^//,/ Villa Garcia. 
Vi/l<, Garcia. We are ready- 

To take you to St. Mary's, Master 
Cranmer. 
Cranmer. And I : lead on ; ye 
loose me from mv bonds. 

[F.xcnnt. 

SCENE III— St. M.\ry's Church. 

Cole in the P„If-ii, LoRn Willia.ms 
OF THAME/';v.f/,////!,'-. Lord Will- 
iam Howard, Lord Pvcet, a}itl 

Soto „uJ Villa'oarcia, ,;;;,.' ///,• 
whoU- Clioir sinkc „,'• ' Nunc Diniit- 
tis.' Cranmer is sc/n/'ona SeafolJ 
lh-ft'i\- tkc feople. 



Col.: Behold him- 
[A faiise: pc.,pU 



the fore 



St.iud u.uching a sick beast before he 

/>;.,' ProL-st.int. Him perch'd up 
there .' I wish some thunder- 
bolt 
Would make this Cole a cinder, pulpit 

Co/f. Behold him, brethren : he 
hath cause to weep ! — 
So have we all : weep with him if ye 



expedient for one 
for the people. 



:ie people 
houldhe die that hath 



To the one Catholic Universal Church, 
Repentant of his errors ? 

Protestant murmurs. Av, tell us 




Cole. Tho.se of the wrong side will 

despise the man, 
Deeming him one that thro' the fear 

of death 
Gave u|) his cause, e.xcept he seal his 

faith 
In sight of all with flaming martyr- 




is pardon due 
yet are there 



According to the car 
To him that so repen 

causes 
Wherefore our Queen and Council at 

this time 
Adjudge him to the death. He hath 

been a traitor, 
A shaker and confounder of the realm ; 
And when the King's divorce was sued 

at Rome, 
He here, this heretic metropolitan. 
As if he had been the Holv Father, 



And judged it. Did I 

tic.' 
A husie heresiarch ! i 



hin 



rch. 



preaching 
) long con- 



Hath found his pardon ; therefore he 

_^ must die. 

for warning and e.vample. 

Other reasons 
There be for this man's ending, which 

our Queen 
And Council at this present deem it 



iple 



Cole. Take therefore, all, 

by this man, 
For if oin- Holy Queen not pardon 

him, 
Much less shall others in like cause 

escape. 
That all of you, the highest as the 





Qiiem Ma 



ice of so hi^h 



Chief prelate of our Church, arch- 
bishop, first 
In Council, second person in tlie 

reahn, 
Friend for so long time of a mighty 

King ; 
And now ye see downfallen and 

debased 
From councillor to caitiff — fallen so 

low, 
The leprous flutterings of the byway, 

scum 
And offal of the city would not 

change 
Estates with him ; in brief, so miser- 
able, 
There is no hope of better left for 

him. 
No place for worse. 

Yet, Cranmer, be thou glad. 
This is the work of God. He is 

glorified 
In thy conversion : lo ! thou art 

reclaim'd ; 
He brings thee home: nor fear but 

that to-day 
Thou shall receive the penitent thief's 

award. 
And be with Christ the Lord in 

Paradise. 
Remember how God made the fierce 

fire seem 
To those three children like a pleas- 



ith 




breath, one heart, one 
soul for me. 
Coli. And now, lest anyo 
you doubt 
The man's conversion and remorse of 

heart, 
Yourselves shall hear him speak. 

.Speak, Master Cranmer, 
Fulfil your promise made me, and 

proclaim 

Your true undoubted faith, that all 

may hear. 

Cranmer. And that I will. O 

God, Father of Heaven ! 

O Son of God, Redeemer of the 

world : 
O Holv Ghost ! proceeding from them 
both, 

id one God, have 



Three per 
Most niisei 



dev 



ember. 



iumph of St. .\ndrew on his 

itience of St. Lawrence in the 

f thou call on God and all the 

the fury of the 

strength to un- 



iod will beat down 

flame, 
■)r give thee s.aintly 

dergo. 
\nd for thy soul shall masses here be 

sung 
ly every priest in Oxford. Pray for 

him. 
Cranmer. Ay, one and all, dear 
s, pray for me ; 




I have offended against heaven and 

More grievously than any tongue can 

tell. 
Then whither should I flee for any 

help > 
I am ashamed to lift my eyes to 

heaven, 
And I can find no refuge upon 

earth. 
Shall I despair then ?— God forbid! 

OGod, 
For thou art merciful, refusing none 
That come to Thee for succor, unto 

Thee, 
Therefore, I come ; humble myself to 

Thee ; 
Saying, O Lord God, 

sins be great, 
For thy great mercy have mercy ! O 

God the Son, 
Not for slight faults alone, when thou 

becamest 
Man in the Flesh, was the great mys- 
tery wrought ; 
O God the Father, not for little sins 
Didst thou yield up thy Son to human 

death ; 
But for the greatest sin that can be 

sinn'd. 
Yea, even such as mine, incalculable-. 
LTnpardonable, — sin against the ligh:, 



I though my 





Forgi' 



God, which I had p 
must be greater th: 
, Father, for no nie 



of 



But that Thv name by man be glori- 
fied, 

And Thy most blessed Son's, wlio 
died for man. 
Good people, every man at time of 
death 

Would fain set forth some saying that 
may live 

After his death and better human- 
kind ; 

last word a 

epitaph, re- 



For death gives life'f 

power to live, 
And, like the stoue-c 



After the vanish'd voice, and speak to 

men. 
God grant me grace to glorify my 

God! 
.^nd first I say it is a grievous case. 
Many so dote upon this bubble 

' world. 
Whose colors in a moment break and 

fly. 

They care for nothing else. What 

saith St. John :— 
' Love of this world is hatred against 

God.' 
Again, I pray you all that, next to 

God, 
You do unmurmuringly and willingly 
Obey your King and Queen, and not 

for "dread 
Of these alone, but from the fear of 

Him 
Whose ministers they be to govern 



Thirdly, I pray you all to live together 

Like brethren ; yet what hatred Chris- 
tian men 

Bear to each other, seeming not as 
brethren, 

But mortal foes ! But do you good 
to all 

As much as in you lieth. Hurt no 

Than you would harm your loving 





Of the same roof, same breast. If 

any do, 
Albeit he think hmiself at home with 

God, 

< )f this be sure, he is whole worlds 
away. 
Protestant murmurs. AVhat sort of 
brothers then be those that lust 
To burn each other t 

Williams. Peace among you, 

there I 
Cranmer. Fourthly, to those that 
own exceeding wealth, 
Remember that sore saying spoken 

]!v Him that was the truth, ' How 

hard it is 
For the rich man to enter into 

Heaven ; ' 
Let all rich men remember that hard 



vord. 



I have 



time for 



Let them flow forth in charity, seeing 
and all food so 
prison, yet have 



The poor so man; 

dear. 
Long have I lain i 

heard 
Of all their wretchedness. Give to 

the poor. 
Ye give to God. He is with us in the 

poor. 
And now, and forasmuch as I have 

come 
To the last end of life, and thereupon 
Hangs all my past, and all ray life to 



Either 



ith Christ in He 



'}S^L 



pai: 



with devils 



Or to be st^ 
hell ; 

And, seeing in a moment, I shall find 

{Pointing upwards. 

Heaven or else hell ready to swallow 

{Pointing downwariis. 
1 shall declare to you my very faith 
Without all color. 

do believe in God, 
Father of all; 
;rv article of the Catholic faith, 





Mary. 



And everv syllable taught us by our 

Lo'rd, 
His prophets, and apostles, in the 



iible. bi 




Both Old and New. 

Coll-. Be plainer, Master Cranmer. 

Cranmer. And now I come to the 
great cause that weighs 
Upon my conscience more than any- 



Or 



Wi 



done in 



by 



here be writings I 


have set 


abroad 




st the truth I knew 


Within my 


heart, 




n for fear of death, t 


save my 



If that might be ; the papers by my 

Sign'd since my degradation — by this 
hand 

\Hohiin^^ exit /lis right hanj. 
Written and sign'd — I here renounce 

them all ; 
And, since my hand offended, having 

written 
Against niv heart, my hand shall first 

be burnt, 
.So I may come to the fire. 

\D.>i,i silfuce. 
Protesliint munmii-s. 
First Protestant. I knew it would 

be so. 
Second Protestant. Our prayers are 

heard ! 
Thirel Protestant. God bless him ! 
Catholic murmurs. Out upon him ! 
out upon him ! 
Liar ! dissembler ! traitor ! to the 
fire: 
Williams [raising his voice). Vou 
know that you recanted all you 
said 
Touching the sacrament in that same 

book 
You wrote against my Lord of Win- 
chester ; 
Dissemble not ; play the plain Chris- 
tian man. 
Cranmer. Alas, my Lord, 
I have been a man loved plainness all 
my life ; 



For utter truth and plainness ; where- 
fore, I say, 
I hold by all I w'rote within that book. 
Moreover, 
As for the Pope I count him Anti- 



chr: 
With all his devil's doctr 

refuse. 
Reject him, and abhor him 



les ; and 



all sides. 



Pull 



down ! Away with him ! ' 
Cole. Ay, stop the heretic's mouth ! 

Hale him away! 
IVilliams. Harm him not, harm 
him not ! have him to the fire ! 
[Cranmer goes out between T~vo 
Friars, smiling ; hands are 
reached to him from the cro-od. 
Lord William I Iowakd ,<;/,/ 
Lord Paget arc l,.f! aUne in 
the church. 
Paget. The nave and aisles all 
emptv as a fool's jest ! 
Xo, here's 'Lord William Howard. 

What, my Lord, 
You have not gone to see the burn- 
ing.' 
Hffiuard. Fie ! 

To stand at ease, and stare as at a 

show. 
And watch a good man burn. Never 

again. 
I saw the deaths of Latimer and Rid- 



holic, I would 




Moreover, tho 

not, 
For the pure honor of 



Hear what I might — another recan- 
tation 

Of Cranmer at the stake. 
Paget. You'd not hear that. 

He pass'd out smiling, and he walk'd 
upright ; 

His eye was like a soldier's, whom 
'the general 

He looks to and he leans on as his 
God, 

Hath rated for some backw-ardness 
and bidd'n him 





Queen Mary. 



Charge one against a thousand, and 

the man 
Murls his soil'd life against the pikes 

and dies. 
Hnuard. Yet tliat he might not 

after all those papers 
Of recantation yield again, who 

l<novvs ? 
Pagtt. Papers of recantation ! 

Think VOLI then 
That Cr.inmer read all papers that he 

sign'd ? 
Orsign'd all those thevtell us that he 

sign'd ? 
Nay, I trow not : and you shall see, 

mv Lord, 
That howsoever hero-like the man 
Dies in the fire, this Bonner or 

another 



nig 



cluir 



of their 



nd Ridley die ? 



then. 



/Io-kki:,I. His eiglity years 

Look'd somewhat crooked on him in 
his frieze ; 

But after they had stript him to his 
shroud, 

lie stood upright, a lad of twenty- 
one, 

.-\nd gather'd with his hands the start- 
ing flame, 

And wash'd his hands and all his face 
therein, 

Until the powder suddenly blew him 
dead. 

Ridlev was longer burning; but he 
" died 

.\s m.u-ifully and bokllv, and, 'fore 
God, 

I knoxv them heretics, but right Eng- 
lish ones. 

If ever, as heaven grant, we clash 
with Spain, 

Our Ridlev-soldiers and our Latimer- 



ch her something. 
P.is^il. Your mild Legate Pole 

Will tell vou that the devil helpt them 




lA murmur of t/u- C, 
distance. 
lark, how those Ro 

howl and bay him ! 
Hmuard. Might it not be the other 




olfdo'.. 



reja 



:nig 



In his 

Paget. They are too crush'i 
broken. 



They have brought it in large mea 

ure on themselves. 
Have I not heard them mock tl- 

blessed Host 
In songs so lewd, the beast migl 

roar his claim 
To being in Clod's image, more tha 



Have In, 
Gardener 



■s pla 



keeper, the 
in the par- 
spire swung 
the street^, 
thev have 



The parson from his own 
out dead, 

And Ignorance crying in 
and all men 

Regarding her ? I sav 
drawn the fire ' 

( )n their own heads : vet, Paget, I do 
hold 

The Catholic, if he hav^ the greater 
right, 

Hath been the crueller. 
Pa^ef. Action and re-action. 

The 'miserable see-saw of our child- 
world. 

Make us despise it at odd hours, my 

Heaven help that this re-action not 



Yet fiercelier under 

beth, 
So that she come to rule. us. 
Howard. The world's 

Paget. My Lord, the world ii 

a drunken man. 
Who cannot move straight to hi: 

— but reels 
Now to the right, then as fa 

left, 
Push'd by the crowd beside- 

underfoot 



Eliza- 














^tn 1 i-g 


I \ 1 [T 


X 






SCENE III. Qiuen 


Alary. 273 


\ 


An earthquake; for since Henry tor 


Fed with rank bread that crawl'd 




. 


a doubt- 


U|)0!i the tongue. 


_ 






Which a young lust had clapt upon 


And ijutrid water, every drop a worm. 








eAa the back, 


Until they died of rotted limbs ; and «Aj 






Crying, ' Koivvard ! ' — set our old 


then 






church rocking, men 


Cast on the dunghill naked, and be- 






Have hardly known what to believe. 


come 






or whether 


Hideously alive again from head to 






They should believe in anything ; the 


heel, 
Made even the carrion-nosing mon- 






So shift and change, they see not 


grel vomit 






how they are borne, 


With hate and horror. 






Xor whither. I conclude the King a 


Paget. Nay, you sicken }iu- 






beast; 


To hear you. 






Verily a lion if vou will— the world 


Howard. Fancy-sick; these things 






A most obedient beast and fool— my- 


are done, 






self 


Done right against the promise of this 






Half beast and fool as appertaining 


Queen 






to it 


Twice given. 






Altho' your Lordship hath as little of 


Paget. No faith with heretics, mv 






each 


Lord ! 






Cleaving to your original Adaniclay, 


Hist ! there be two old gossips- 






As mav be consonant with mortality. 


gospellers. 






Ho-oanl. We talk and Crannier 


I t.ik; it; stand behind the pillar 






suffers. 


here ; 






The kindliest man I ever knew ; see, 


I warrant you they talk about the 






see, 


burning. 






I speak of him in the past. Unhappy 








land ! 
Hard-natured Queen, half-Spanish in 
herself, 


Enter Two Oi.i) Women. Jcj.^.n', 
amiafu-r her'\\'A. 






And grafted on the hard-grain'd stock 


/.■an. Why, it be Tib ! 






of Spain— 


Tik I cum behind tha, gall, and 






Her life, since Philip left her, and she 


couldn't make tha hear. Eh, the 






lost 


wind and the wet ! What a day, wliat 






Her fierce desire of bearing him a 


a day! nigh upo' judgement daay loike. 






child, 


Pwo'aps be pretty things, Jo.nn, but 






Hath, like a brief and bitter winter's 


they wunt set i' the Lord's cheer 






day, 


that daay. 






Gone narrowing down and darkeiung 


Joan. I must set down myself, 






to a close. 


Tib ; it be a var waay vor my owld 






There will be more conspiracies, I 
fear. 


legs up vro' Islip. Eh, my rheuma- 
tizy be that bad howiver be I to win to 






Pn'^ct. .Ay, ay, beware of France. 


the burn in'. 






//cmuinl. ' O Paget, Paget ! 


Tib. I should saay 'twur ower by 




1 


I have seen heretics of the poorer 


now. I'd ha' been here avore, Uut 






sort, 


Dumble wur blow'd wi' the wind, and 






^ K.xpectant of the rack from day to 


Bumble's the best milcher in Isl.p. T 


\ 




^ 


day, 


Joan. Our Daisy's as good 'z her 




, 




It 


To whom the fire were welcome, IvinE; 


Tih. Noa.Joan. 




\ 






chain'd 


Joan. Our Daisy's butter's as good 




i 






In breathless dungeons over steaming 


'z hern. 








K 


sewers. 


Til>. Noa, Joan. 


} 




M 1 B^ 


y 




















-J 




Queen Mo 



Our Daisy's che 



Tih. Noa, Joan. 

Joiin. El), then ha' thy waay wi" 
me, Tib ; ez thou hast wi' thy ovvld 

Til). Ay, Joan, and my owkl man 
vvur up and awaay betimes wi' dree 
hard eggs for a good pleace at the 
burnin- ; and barrin' the wet, Hodge 
'ud ha' been a-harrowin' o' white 
peasen i' the outfield — and barrin' the 
wind, Dumble wur blow'd wi' the wind, 
so 'z we was forced to stick her, but 
we fetched her round at last. Thank 
the Lord therevore. Dumble's the 
best milcher in Islip. 

Joan. Thou's thy way wi' man and 
beast, Tib. I wonder at tha', it beats 
me ! Eh, but I do know ez Pwoaps 
and vires be bad things ; tell 'ee now, 
I heerd summat as summun towld 
summun o' owld Bishop Gardiner's 
end ; there wur an owld lord a-cum to 
dine wi' un, and a wur so owld a 
couldn't bide vor his dinner, but a had 
to bide howsoniiver, vor ' I wunt dine,' 
says my Lord Bishop, says he, ' not 
till I hears ez Latimer and Ridley be 
a-vire; ' and so they bided on and on 
till vour o' the clock, till his man cum 
in post vro' here and tells un ez the 
vire has tuk holt. 'Now,' says the 
Bishop, says he, ' wt'll gwo to dinner ; ' 
and the owld lord fell to 's meat wi' a 
will, God bless un ! but Gardiner wur 
struck down like by the hand o' God 
avore a could taste a mossel, and a set 
un all a-vire, so 'z the tongue on un 
cum a-lolluping out o' 'is mouth as 
black as a rat. Thank the Lord, 
therevore. 

Paget. The fools ! 

Tib. Ay, Joan ; and Queen Mary 
gwoes on a-burnin' and a-burnin', to 
get her baaby born : but all her burn- 
in's 'ill never burn out the hypocrisy 
that makes the water in her. There's 
nought but the vire of God's hell ez 
can burn out that. 

loan. Thank the Lord, therevore. 
'rai;el. The fools ! 

Tib. A-burnin', and a-bnrnin', and 





a-makin' 'o volk madder ?nd madder ; 
but tek thou my word vor't, Joan. — 
and I beau't wrong not twice 'i tsn 
year — the burnin' o' the owld arcii- 
bisliop 'II burn the Pwoap out o' this 
'ere land vor iver and iver. 

Howard. Out of the church, you 

brace of cursed crones. 
Or I will have you duck'd ! [Wonu-it 

hurry out.) Said I not right .' 
For how should reverend prelate or 

throned prince 
Brook for an hour such brute malig- 
nity? 
Ah, what an acrid wine has Luther 

brew'd ! 
P<ig£t. Pooh, pooh, my Lord ! poor 

garrulous country-wives. 
Buy you their cheeses, and they'll side 

with you ; 
You cannot judge the liquor from the 

some sort 



ffmvard. I think that 
we may. But see, 



Enter Peters. 
Peters, my gentleman, an honest 

Catholic, 
Who foUow'd with the crowd to 

Cranmer's fire. 
One that would neither misreport nor 



if the 



Not to gain paradise : 

Pope, 
Charged him to do it — he is white as 

death. 
Peters, how pale you look ! you bring 

the smoke 
Of Cranmer's burning with you. 

Peters. Twice or thrice 

The smoke of Cranmer's burning 

wrapt me round. 

Ho^tianl. Peters, you know me 

Catholic, but English. 

Did he die bravely ? Tell me that, or 

leave 
All else untold. 
Peters. My Lord, he died 

bravely. 
Howard. Then tell me all. 
Pallet. Av, Master Peters, tell 





Queen Mary. 



Peters. Vou saw him how he f 
among the crowd ; 
And ever as he walk'd the Span 
friars 



plied hi: 
proach 



any sue 



with entreaty and re- 

s the helmsman at the 

helm 
.Vteers, ever looking to the happy 

haven 
Where he shall rest at night, moved to 

his death ; 
And I could see that 

hands 
Came from the crowd and met his 

own ; and thus, 
When we had come where Ridley 

burnt with Latimer, 
He, with a cheerful smile, as one 

whose mind 
Is all made up, in haste put off the 

rags 
They had mock'd his misery with, and 

all in white, 
His long white beard, which he had 

never shaven 
Since Henry's death, down-sweeping 

to the chain, 
Wherewith they bound him to the 

stake, he 'stood 
More like an anciL-nt father of the 

Church, 
Than heretic of these times ; and still 

the friars 
Plied him, but Cranmer only shook 

his head. 
Or answer'd them in smiling nega- 
tives ; 
Whereat Lord Williams gave a sud- 
den cry : — 
' Make short ! make short ! ' and so 

they lit the wood. 
Then Cranmer lifted his left hand to 

heaven, 
And thrust his right into the bitter 

fianie ; 
And crying, in his deep voice, more 

than once, 
'This hath offended— this unworthy 

hand I ' 
So held it till it all was burn'd, before 

ame had reach'd his body; I 

stood near — 





; never uttered moan 
;1 or writhed, but, like 
the greatness of the 



Unmoving i 
flame, 

Gave up the c;host ; and so past mar- 
tyr-like— 
Martyr I may not call him — past— 
but whither ? 
Ptiget. To purgatory, man, to pur- 
gatory. 
Peters. Nay, but, my Lord, he 

denied purgatory. 
Paget. Why then to Heaven, and 

God ha' mercy on hint. 
Heavard. Paget, despite his fearful 
heresies, 
I loved the man, and needs must 

moan for him ; 
<) Cranmer ! 
Paget. But your moan is useless 
now : 
Come out, my Lord, it is a world of 
fools. \Exeu7,t. 



QuEKN, Sir Nicholas Hi 



Heath. Madam, 

do assure you, that it must be look'd 



and the 
tiust be 



Calais is b it ill-garrison'd, in 
Are scarce two hundred men, 

French fleet 
Rule in the narrow seas. It 

look'd to, 
If war should fall between yourself 

and France ; 
Or vou will lose your Calais. 

lirary. It shall be look'd to ; 

I wish you a good morning, good Sir 

Nicholas: 
Here is the King. \Exit Heath. 

Enter Philip. 





Miiry. Go ? must you go, indeed 

— again — so soon ? 
Why, nature's licensed vagabond, the 

swaliow, 
That might live always in the sun's 

warm heart. 
Stays longer here in our poor north 



than 



you : 



Knows where he nested — ever comes 

again. 

P/iilip. And, Madam, so shall I. 

jVary. O, will you ? will you ? 

I am faint with fear' that you will 

come no more. 

Philip. Ay, ay; but many voices 

call me hence. 
Mary. Voices — I hear unhappy 
rumors — nay, 
I say not, I believe. What voices 

call you 
Dearer than mine that should l)e 

dearest to you ? 
Alas, my Lord ! what voices and hoiv 
many .' 
Philip. The voices of Castille and 
Aragon, 
Granada, Naples, Sicily, and Milan,— 
The voices of Franche-Comte, and 

the Netherlands, 
The voices of Peru and Mexico, 
Tunis, and Oran, and the Philippines, 
And all the fair spice-islands of the 
East. 
Mary (admiringly). You are the 
mightiest monarch upon earth, 
I but a little Queen: and, so in- 
deed, 
Need vou the more. 

Phi'lip. A little Queen ! but when 
I came to wed your majesty, ■ Lord 

Howard, 
Sending an insolent shot that dash'd 

the seas 
Upon us, made us lower our kingly 
flag 
> of England. 
Mary. Howard is all English ! 

There is no king, not were he ten 

king, 
Ten times our husband, but must 
lower his flag 




To that of England in the seas 
England. 
Philip. Is that your answer ? 
Mary. Being Queen of Engl.ir 
have 1 
Philip. So. 

Mary. But wherefore not 

elm the huge vessel of your state, 

my liege, 
ere by the side of her who loves 



Ph 


tth^ 


o, Madan 


, no ! a candle 


Is al 


but s 


noke — a 


,tar beside the 


Is all 


but lo 


St; vour 


jeople will not 




crown 


me — 




Vour 


people 
clime; 


are as cl 


eerless as your 


Mate 


me ai 


d mine 


witness the 




brawls 


the gibb 


jts. 


Here 


swings 


a Span 


ard— there an 



Eng... , 

The peoples are unlike as their com- 
plexion ; 

Vet will I be your swallow and re- 
turn — 

But now I cannot bide. 

Mary. Not to help me ? 

They hate me also for my love to you. 

My Philip ; and these judgments on 
the land— 

Harvestless autumns, horrible agues, 
plague— 
Philip. The blood and sweat of 
heretics at the stake 

Is God's best dew upon the barren 
field. 

Burn more ! 

Mary. I will, I will ; and vou 

will stay .' 
Philip. Have I not said? Madam, 
I 

Vour C( 



and yourself to declare 
nany English 



Marv. Sir, there a 

in your ranks 

To help your battle. 

Philip. So far, good. I say 

I came to sue your Council and your- 
self 
To dechire war against the King of 
Fiance. 




1 


,<fT1 1 '3 


I \ 1 R 


>v 




Pk^ ' ' ■^ 


Mary. 277 ' 


Lr 


SCENE r. Queen 


Mary. Not to see me .' 


Thev will not lay more ta.xes on a land 




Philip. Ay, Madam, to see you. 


So hunger-nipt and wretched; and 4|f 






Unalterably and pesteringly fond! 


you vZ.. jr 




^ \_Asidc. 


The crown is poor. We have given *^ 




But, soon or late vou must have war 


the church-iands back : 




with France'; 


The nobles would not ; nay, they 




King Henry warms your traitors at 


clapt their hands 




his hearth. 


Upon their swords when ask'd; and 




Carew is there, and Thomas Stafford 


therefore God 




there. 


Is hard upon the people. What's to 




Courtenay, belike— 


be done ? 




Mnry. A fool and featherhead ! 


Sir, I will move them in your cause 




Philip. Av, but thev use his name. 


again. 




In brief, this Henrv 


And we will raise us loans and subsi- 




Stirs up your land against you to the 


dies 




intent 


.\mong the merchants; and Sir 




That you may lose your English heri- 


Thomas Gresham 




tage. 


Will aid us. There is Antwerp and 




.\nd then, vour Scottish namesake 


the Jews. 




marrying 


Philip. Madam, mv thanks. 




The Dauphin, he would weld France, 


Mary. And you will stay your 




England, Scotland, 


going.' 




] Into one sword to hack at Spain and 


Philip. And further to discourage 




1 me. 


and lay lame 




Mary. And yet the Pope is now 


The plots of France, altho' you love 




colleagued \vith France ; 


her not. 




You make vour wars upon him down 


You must proclaim Elizabeth your 




inltkly:- 


heir. 




Philip, can that be well .' 


She stands between you and the 




Philip. Content vou. Madam ; 


Queen of Scots'. 




You must abide mv judgment, and 


Marv. The Queen of Scots at 




my father's, ' 


least is Catholic. 




Who deems it a most just and holy 


Ph.hp. Ay, Madam, Catholic ; but 




war. 


I will not have 




The Pope would cast the Spaniard 


The King of France the King of 




out of Naples : 


England too. 




He calls us worse than Jews, Moors, 


.Varv. But she's a heretic, and. 




Saracens. 


when I am gone. 




The Pope has pushed his horns be- 


Brings the new learning back. 




yond his mitre— 


Philip. It must be done. 




Eevond his province. Now, 


You must proclaim Elizabeth vour 




Duke Alva will but touch him on the 


heir. 




horns. 


Afary. Then it Is done; but you 




And he withdraws; and of his ho!v 


will stav your going 




head— 


Somewhat beyo'nd your settled pur- 




For Alva is true son of the true 


pose .' 




church- 


Pluhp. No! 




^Y* Nohairisharm'd. Will you not help 


Mary. What, not one day? «Y» 






me here ? 


Philip. You beat upon the rock. 
Mary. And I am broken there. 


11 






Marv. Alas! the Council will not 


it 






hear of war. 


Philip. Is this a place 








They sav vour wars are not the wars 


To wail in, Madam? what! a pul^Iic 






\ 


of England. 


hall. 


1 

5 




a 1 13 LI 1 LlIV 


■ ■ 1 




Q?iccn Mary. 



Go in, I pray you. 

Mary. Do not seem so changed. 
Say go ; but only say it lovingly. 

Philip. You do mistake. I am 
not one to change. 
I never loved you more. 

.'I/1J/7. Sire, I obey you. 

Come quickly. 

Fktlip. Ay. [Exit Mary. 

Enter Count de Feria. 
Feria (aside). The Queen in 1 



How doubly aged this Queen of ours 

hath grown 
Since she lost hope of bearing us a 
child > 
Feria. Sire, if your Grace hath 

mark'd it, so have I. 
Philip. Hast thou not likewise 
mark'd Elizabeth, 
How fair and royal — like a Queen, in- 
deed? 
Feria. Allow me the same answer 
as before — 
That if your Grace hath mark'd her, 
so have I. 
Philip. Good, now ; methinks my 
Queen is like enough 
To leave me by and by. 

Feria. To leave you, sire ? 

Philip. I mean not like to live. 
Elizabeth— 
To Philibert of Savoy, as you know. 



We meant to w 


ed her ; but I 


im 


not 


She will not se 

Queen 
Would leave m 


rve me better- 


-so 


my 


e — as — my wife 






Feria. Sire, even 
Philip. She will not have Pri 

Philibert of Savoy. 
Feria. No, sire. 
Philip. I have to pray you, so 

odd time, 
To sound the Princess carelessly 


on 


Not as from r 

tasy; 
And tell me ho 


le, but as your 


ph 


an- 


w she takes it. 








Feria. 

Philip. I am 
Philibert 
Shall be the man; and I 

his suit 
Upon the Queen, because I an> not 

certain : 
You understand, Feria. 

Feria. Sire, I do. 

Philip. And if you be not secret in 

You understand me there, too ? 

Feria. Sire, I do. 

Philip. You must be sweet and 

supple, like a Frenchman. 

She is none of those who loathe the 

honeycomb. \_Exit Feria. 

Enter Renard. 

Renard. My liege, I bring you 

goodly tidings . 
Philip. Well .' 

Renard. There will be war with 

France, at last, my liege ; 
Sir Thomas Stafford, a bull-headed 

ass. 
Sailing from France, with thirty Eng- 

glishmen. 
Hath taken Scarboro' Castle, north of 

York ; 
Proclaims himself protector, and 

affirms 
The Queen has forfeited her right to 

reign 
By marriage with an alien— other 

things 
As idle; a weak Wyatt ! Little 

This buzz will soon be silenced ; but 

the Council 
(I have talk'd with some already) are 

for war. 
This is the fifth conspiracy hatch'd in 

France ; 
They show their teeth upon it ; and 

your Grace. 
So you will take advice of mine, should 

stay 
Yet for awhile, to shape and guide 

the event. 
Philip. Good ! Renard. I will stay 





Kc-nard. Also, sire, 

Mii^ht I not say — to please your wife, 

the Qaeeii ? 
PJiilip. Ay, Renara, if you care to 

put it so. \Exennt. 



Mary, sitting: a rose in her hanJ. 
Lady Clarence, .\lice, in the 
background. 

Mary. Look ! I have play'd with 
this poor rose so long 
I have broken off the head. 

Lady Clarence. Your Grace hath 
been 
More merciful to many a rebel head 
That should have fallen, and may rise 
again. 
Mary. There were not many 

hang'd for Wyatt's rising. 
Lady Clarence. Nay, not two hun- 
dred. 
Mary. I could weep for them 

And her, and mine own self and all 



the 



rid. 



Lady Clarence. For her i 
whom, your Grace ? 



for 



Enter UsHER. 
The Cardinal. 



Usher 
Enter Cardinal Pole. (Mary 

Mary. Reginald Pole, what news 
hath plagued thy heart .•' 
What makes thy favor like the blood- 
less head 
Fall'n on the block, and held up by 

the hair ? 
Philip .'— 

Pole. No, Philip is as warm in life 
As ever. 

Marv. Av, and then as cold as 

ever. Is Calais taken !> 
Pole. Cousin, there hath chanced 
A sharper harm to England and to 

iome. 
Than Calais taken. Julius the Third 




Fourth, 

Not only reft me of that legateship 
Which Julius gave me, and the legate- 
ship 
Annex'd to Canterbury — nay, but 

worse — 
And yet I must obey the Holy Father, 
And so must you, good cousin ; — worse 

than all, 
A passing bell toU'd in a dying ear — 
He hath cited me to Rome, for 

heresy. 
Before his Inquisition. 

Mary. I knew it, cousin. 

But held from you all papers sent by 

Rome, 
That you might rest among us, till the 

Pope, 
To compass which I wrote myself to 

Rome, 
Reversed his doom, and that you 

might not seem 
To disobey his Holiness. 

Pole. He hates Philip ; 

He is all Italian, and he hates the 

He cannot dream that / advised the 



Phil 



and 



He strikes thro' 

yourself. 
Nay, but I know it of old, he hates 



So brands me i 

dom 
A heretic! 



the stare of Christen- 

t, when bow"d before 
ruin'd ere the lease be 



When I should guide the Church in 

peace at home. 
After my twenty years of banishment. 
And all my lifelong labor to uphold 
The primacy — a heretic. Long ago. 
When I was ruler in the patrimony, 
I was too lenient to the Lutheran, 
And I and learned friends among our- 
selves 
Would freely canvass certain Luther- 
anisms. 






I 




ATiH— ^ 1^-? ? -i 1 -CTN 




G 


• 2S0 QU.YU 


Man: act v. - 


What then, he knew I was no 


To sleep, to die— I shall die <.l it. 




■ 


Lutheran. 


cousin. 








A heretic! 


.Uiirj: I pray you be not so dis- 






^ He drew this shaft against me to the 


consolate ; <^ 






head, 


I still will do mine utmost with the 






When it was thought I might be 


Pope. 






chosen Pope, 


Poor cousin ! 






But then withdrew it. In full consis- 


Have not I been the fast Iri.nd of 






tory, 


your life 






When I was made Archbishop, he 


Since mine began, and it was thought 






approved me. 


we two 






And how should he have sent me 


Might make one flesh, and cleave 






Legate hither. 


unto each other 






Deeming me heretic ? and what 


As man and wife .' 






heresy since .' 


/'o/e. Ah, cousin, I remember 








How I would dandle you upon my 






And hales the Spaniard — fierv- 


knee 


, 




choleric. 


At lisping-age. I watch'd you danc- 


' 




A drinker o£ black, strong, volcanic 


ing once 






wines. 


With vour huge father ; he look'd the 






That ever make him fierier. I, a here- 


Great Harry, 






tic ? 


You but his cockboat; prettily vou 






Your Highness knows that in pursu- 


did it. 






ing heresy 


And innocently. No— we were not 






I have gone beyond vour late Lord 


made 






Chancellor.- ' 


One flesh in happiness, no happiness 






He cried Enough ! enough ! before 


here; 






his death.- 


But now we are made one flesh in 






Gone bevond him and mine own nat- 


miserv ; 






ural man 


Our bridemkids are not lovely— Dis- 






(It was God's cause) ; so far they call 


appointment, 






me now. 


Ingratitude, Injustice, Evil-tongue, 






The scourge and butcher of their 


Labor-in-vain. 






English church. 


M„n: Surelv. not all in vain. 






M.,rv. "Have courage, your reward 


Peace, cousin, peace ! I am sad at 






is Heaven itself 


heart myself. 






/>«/,■. Thev groan amen; they 


Po/e. Our altar is a mound of 






swarmintS the fire 


dead men's clav, 






Like flies— for what? no dogma. 


Dug from the grave that vawns for 






They know nothing ; 


us bevond ; 






Thev burn for nothing. 


And there 'is one Death stands be- 






Afan'. You have done vour best. 


hind the Groom, 






Fo//. Have done my be'st, and as 


And there is one Death stands be- 






a faithful son. 


hind the Bride— 






That all dav long hath wrought his 


Afary. Have you been loolting at 






father's work. 


the ' Dance of Death ' .' 






^ When back he comes at evening hath 


/>.>/<: No; but these libellous pa- 






or 


the door 


pers which I found ^ 






. 


Shut on him by the father whom he 


Strewn in vour ])alace. Look you 1 








loved, 


here— the Pope 








His earlv follies cast into his teeth, 


Pointing at me with ' Pole, the heretic, 








And the'poor son turn'd out into the 


Thou hast burnt others, do. thou burn 






■ 


K, 


thyself. 




\ 


□ 1 1 : : 1 1 ay 




■ 1' 



Queen Mary. 



Or I will burn thee ; ' and this other ; 

' We pray continually for the death 
Of our accursed Queen and Cardinal 

Pole.' 
This last — I dare not read it her. 

[Asi,A\ 
Maiy. Away ! 

W liy do you bring me these ? 
I thought you knew me better. I 

never read, 
I tear them ; thev come back upon 

my dreams.' 
The hands that write them should be 

burnt clean off 
As Cranmer's, and the fiends that 

utter them 
Tongue-torn with pincers, lash'd to 

death, or lie 
Famishing in blade cells, while 

famish'd rats 
Eat them alive. Why do they bring 

me these .' 
Do you mean to drive me mad ? 

Pole. I had forgotten 

How these poor libels trouble you. 

Your pardon. 
Sweet cousin, and farewell ! ' O bub- 
ble world. 
Whose colors in a moment break and 

fly!' 
Why, who said that .' I know not — 

true enough ! 
\Piits up the papers, all but the 

lasl, whieh falls. Exit Pole. 
Aliic. If Cranmer's spirit were a 

mocking one. 
And heard these two, there might be 

sport for him. [Aside. 

Mary. Clarence, they hate me ; 

even while I speak 
There lurks a silent dagger, listening 
In some dark closet, some long gal- 
lery, drawn. 
And panting for my blood as I go by. 
Ltiiiy Clareuec. Nay, iVIadam, there 

be hn'al papers too. 
And I have often found them. 

Mary. Find me one ! 

Lady Clarence. Ay, Madam ; but 

Sir Nicholas Heath, the Chan- 
cellor, 
Would see 5'our Highness. 





Alary. Wlierefore should I 

Lady ciareiiee. Well, Madam, he 
may bring you news from 
Philip. 
Majy. So, Clarence. 
Lady Clarence. Let me first put 

up your hair ; 
It tumbles all abroad. 

Afary. And the gray dawn 

Of an old age that never will be 

Is all the clearer seen. No, no ; what 

mattcr^ ? 
Forlorn I am, and let me look forlorn. 

Enter Sir Nicholas He.\th. 
Heath. I bring your Majesty such 
grievous news 
I grieve to bring it. Madam, Calais 
is taken. 
Mary. What traitor spoke ? Here, 
let mv cousin Pole 
Seize him and burn him for a Lu- 
theran. 
Heath. Her Highness is unwell. 

I will retire. 
Lady Clarence. Madam, your 
Chancellor, Sir Nicholas 
Heath. 
Mary. Sir Nicholas ! I am stunn'd 
— Nicholas Heath.' 
Methought some traitor smote me on 

the head. 
What said you, my good Lord, that 

our brave English 
Had sallied out from Calais and 

driven back 
The Frenchmen from their trenches ? 
Heath. Alas! no. 

That gateway to the mainland over 

which 
Our flag hath floated for two hundred 

years 
Is France again. 

Marv. So ; but it is not lost — 

Not vet. Send out : let England as 

of old 
Rise lionlike, strike hard and deep 

into 
The prey they are rending from 





The renders too. Send out, send out, 

and make 
Musters in all the counties ; gather 

all 
From sixteen years to sixty ; collect 

the fleet; 
Let every craft that carries sail and 

gun 
Steer toward Calais. Guisnes is not 

taken yet ? 
Heath. Guisnes is not taken yet. 
Mary. There yet is hope. 

Heath. Ah, Madam, but your peo- 
ple are so cold ; 
I do much fear that England will not 

care. 
Methinks there is no manhood left 

Mary. Send out ; I am too weak 
to stir abroad : 

Tell my mind to the Council — to the 
Parliament : 

Proclaim it to the winds. Thou art 
cold thyself 

To babble of their coldness. O 
would I were 

Mv father for an hour ! .\\\3.y now- 
Quick ! {Exit Heath. 

I hoped 1 had served God with all 



?ht! 



.\h! 



heresv 

Shelter'd in Calais. Saints, I have 
rebuilt 

Your shrines, set up your broken 
images ; 

Be comfortable to me. Suffer not 

That my brief reign in England be de- 
famed 

Thro' all her angry chronicles here- 
after 

By loss of Calais. Grant me Calais. 
Philip, 

We have made war upon the Holv 
Father 

All for your sake : what good could 
come of that .> 
Laily Clarence. No, Madam, not 
against the Holy Father; 

You did but help King Philip's war 
with France, 

Your troops were never down in 
Italy. 





Heretic 
Philip 



Mary. 

Mary. I am a by\i 
and rebel 

Point at me and make 
gone! 

And Calais gone ! Time that I were 
gone too ! 
Lady Clarence. . Nay, if the fetid 
gutter had a voice 

And cried I was not clean, what 
should I care ? 

Or you, for heretic cries ? .\nd I be- 
lieve. 

Spite of your melancholy Sir Nicho- 
las, 

Your England is as loyal as myself. 
Marv {Seeing' the paper dropt hv 
Pole). 
There! there! another paper! 
Said you not 

Many of these were loyal ? Shall I 

If this be one of such.' 

Lady Clarence. Let it be, let it be. 
God pardon me I I have never yet 

found one. {Aside. 

Mary (reads). 'Your people hate 

you as your husband hates ymi.' 
Clarence, Clarence, what have I done ? 

what sin 
Beyond all grace, all pardon ? Motlier 

of God, 
Thou knowest never woman meant so 

well. 
And fared so ill in this disastrous 



rid. 



and de 



iMdy Clarence. No, Madam, no. 
Mary. My husband hates me, and 

desires my death. 
Ladv Clarer.ce. No, Madam ; these 

'are libels. 
Mary. I hate myself, and I desire 

my death. 
Lady Clarence. Long live your 

Majesty ! Shall Alice sing yon 
One of her pleasant songs ? Alice, 

my child. 
Bring us your lute (Alice goes). They 

say the gloom of Saul 
Was lighten'd by young David's harp. 
Marv. Too young 1 

And never knew a Philip. 





Mary. 



Re-enter Alice. 




Give me the lute. 


He hates m 






(She smgs.) 


Hapless doom 


of woman happy in betroth- 






Beauiy passes 


like a breath and love is lost 


in loath 


ng: 


Low, my lute 


; speak low, my lute, but say 


the wor 


d is nothing- 




Low, lute, low ! 


Love w.ll ho 


er round the flowers when 


they tirs 


t awaken ; 


Love will fly 


the fallen leaf, and not be 


Low, my lut 


! oh low, my lute ! we fade 


and are 


forsaken- 




Low, dear lute, low ! 



Take it away ! not low enough for me ! 
Alue. Your Grace hath a low 

voice. 
Mary. How dare you say it ? 

Even for that he hates me. A low- 
voice 
Lost in a wilderness where none can 

hear ! 
A voice of shipwreck on a shoreless 

A low voice from the dust and from 

the grave 
(Sitting on the grenmd). There, am 

I low enough now ? 
Alice. Good Lord ! how grim and 

ghastly looks her Grace, 
With both her knees drawn upward 

to her chin. 
There was an old-world tomb beside 

my father's, 
And this was open'd, and the dead 

were found 
Sitting, and in this fashion ; she looks 

a corpse. 

Enter Lady Magd.'vlen Dacres. 
LaJy Magdalen. Madam, the 
Count de Feria waits without. 
In hopes to see your Highness. 

Lady Clarence [pointing to Mary). 




Her 




She 



:ither sees 



ranee agaii 
nor hears, 
And may not speak for hours. 

Lady Magdalen. Unhapppiest 

Of Queens and wives and women ! 
Alice (in the foregrmind with Ladv 
Magdalen). And all along 

Of Philip. 

Lady Magdalen. Not so loud ! 
Our Clarence there 
Sees ever such an aureole round the 

Queen, 
It gilds the greatest wronger of her 

peace, 
Who stands the nearest to her. 

Alice. Ay, this PhibV ; 

I used to love the Queen with all niv 

God help me, but methinks I love 

her less 
For such a dotage upon such a man. 
I would I were as tall and strong as 
you. 
Lady Magdalen. I seem half- 
shamed at times to be so tall. 
Alice. You are the stateliest deer 
in all the herd — 
Beyond his aim — but I am small and 

scandalous, 
And love to hear bad tales of Philip. 
Lady Magdalen. Why .'' 

I never heard him utter worse of you 
Than that you were low-statured. 

Alice. Does he think 

Low stature is low nature, or all 

women's 
Low as his own ? 

Ladv Mai^dalcn. There you strike 
'in the nail. 
This ro;irseness is a want of phantasy. 
It is the low man thinks the woman 

low; 
Sin is too dull to see beyond himself. 
Alice. Ah, Magdalen, sin is bold 
as well as dull. 
How dared he ? 
Lady Magdalen. Stupid soldiers 
oft are bold. 
Poor lads, they see not what the gen- 
eral sees, 
A risk of utter ruin. I am not 
Beyond his aim, or was not. 
Alice. Who? Not von? 





Mary. 



• credii 



vith my 



Tell, tell me; save 
self. 
Lady Magdalen. I never breathed 
, ," '° ^ '"'"'^ '» the eaves. 

Would not for all the stars and 
maiden moon 

Our drooping Queen should know! 
In Hampton Court 

My window look'd upon the corri- 
dor ; 

And I was robing;— this poor throat 
of mine, 

Barer than I should wish a man to 

ak of drove the win- 

yal 

I's providence a pronrl sf. 



When he we s 

dow bac 
And, like a thief, push'd in his 

hand ; 
Kut by God's providence a good stou 

Lay near me ; and vou know ms 

strong of arm ; 
I do believe I lamed his .Majesty's 
For a day or two, tho', give the Devil 

his due, 
I never found he bore me anv spite 
Alice. I would she could have wed- 
ded that poor youth, 
My Lord of Devon— light enough 

("lod knows. 
And mixt with Wyatt's rising-and 

the boy 
Not out of ■ him— but neither cold, 

coarse, cruel. 
And more than all— no .Spaniard. 

LadyClarauc. Not so loud. 

Lord Devon, girls! what 
wli ispe ring here. = 
Ahec. Probing an old S 
— how it chanced 
That this young Earl was se 

eic;n travel, 
Not lost his head. 
Lady Claroue. There was no 

proof against him. 
Alice. Nay, Madam; did not 
Gardiner intercept 
A letter which the Count de Noailles 

wrote 
To that dead traitor Wvatt, with full 

proof 
C'f Courtenav's treason.' What be- 



re you 
e-secret 
on for- 





Lady Clarence. Some say that 

Gardiner, out of love for him. 

Burnt it, and some relate that it wa.-> 

lost 
When Wyatt sack'd the Chancellor's 

house m.Southwark. 
Let dead things rest. 

Alue. Av. and with him who died 
Alone m Italy. 

Lady Clarence. Much changed, I 
hear, 
Had put off levity and put graveness 



on. 
The foreigr 

Noble """" 



shield. 

It might be so— b 

He caught a chill 



urts report him in his 
■oung person and old 



i over now ; 
lagoons of 



Died 



And died in Padua. 

Mary (looking up suddenly 

in the true faith .' 
Lady Clarence. Ay, Madam, hap- 

aJary. Happier he than I. 

Lady Magdalen. It seems her 

Highness hath awaken'd. 

Think you 

That I might dare to tell her that the 

Count 

Mary. I will see no man hence for 
evermore. 
Saving my confessor and ni)' cousin 
Pole. 
Lady Magdalen. It is the Count 

de Feria, my dear lady. 
-f"7- Wha't Count.' 

Lady Magdalen. The Count de 
Feria, from his xMaiesty 
King Philip. ■* 

Mary. Philip ! quick i loop up mv 
hair ! 
Throw cushions on that 
make it throne-like. 
Arrange my dress— the gorgeous 

Indian shawl 
That Philip brought me in our happy 

days !— 
That covers all. .So— am I some- 
what Queenlike, 
Bride of the mightiest soverei"ii upon 
earth .> 





Queen Mary. 



Lady CUcreiue. Ay, so your Grace 
would bide a moment yet. 

Mary. No, no, he brings a letter. 
I may die 

liefore I read it. Let me see him at 
once. 



Enh-r Count DE Feri.\ (kneels). 
Feria. I trust your Grace is well. 

[Aside) How her hand burns ! 
Mary. I am not well, but it will 

better me. 
Sir Count, to read the letter which 

you bring. 
Feria. Madam, I bring no letter. 
Mary. How ! no letter ,' 

Feria. His Highness is so vex'd 

with strange affairs — 
Mary. That his own wife is no 

affair of his. 
Feria. Nay, Madam, nay ! he sends 

his veriest love. 
And says, he will come quickly. 



Marv. 



Doth he, indeed.' 
member what yoit 



You, sir, do y. 

When last you came to England? 

Feria. Madam, I brought 

My King's congratulations ; it was 

hoped 
Your Highness was once more in 

happy state 
To give him an heir male. 

Mary. Sir, you said more ; 

You said he would come quicklv. I 

had horses 
On all the road from Dover, day and 

night ; 
On all the road from Harwich, night 

and day ; 
But the child came not, and the hus- 
band came not ; 
And yet he will come quickly. . . 

Thou hast learnt 
I'hy lesson, and I mine. There is no 





And that I am 
death— 
Thou art commission'd 
And not to me ! 

Feria. Mere compliments and 
wishes. 
But shall I take some message from 
your G race ^ 
Mary. Tell her to come and close 
my dying eyes. 
And wear my crown, and dance upon 
my grave. 
Feria. Then I may say your Grace 
will see your sister .' 
Your Grace is too low-spirited. Air 

and sunshine. 
I would we had you, Madam, in our 

warm Spain. 
You droop in your dim London. 

Mary. Have him away ! 

I sicken of his readiness. 

Lady Clarence. My Lord Count, 

Her Highness is too ill for colloquy. 

Feria [kneels., and kisses ker hand). 

I wish her Highness better. 

[Aside) How her hand burns! 

VExeunt. 



Elizabeth. There's half an angel 

wrong'd in your account; 

Methinks I am all angel, that I bear 

Without more ruffling. Cast it o'*er 
again. 
Steward. I were whole devil if I 
wrong'd you, Madam. 

\Exit Steward. 
Attendant. The Count de Feria, 

from the King of Spain. 
Elizabeth. Ah !— let him enter. 
Nay, you need not go : 

[ To her Ladies. 
Remain within the chamber, but 

apart. 
We'll have no private confers 
Welcome to England ! 




Queen Alary. 



Feria. 
Feria. Fair island star ! 
Elizabeth. I shine ! What else, 

Sir Count ? 
Feria. As far as France, and into 
Philip's heart. 
My King would know if you be fairly 

served, 
And lodged, and treated. 

Elizabeth. You see the lodging, sir, 
I am well-served, and am in every- 
thing 
Most loyal and most grateful to the 
Queen. 
Feria. You should be grateful to 
my master, too. 
He spoke of this; and unto him you 

owe 
That Mary hath acknowledged vou 
her heir. 
Elizabeth. No, not to her nor him ; 
but to the people. 
Who know my right, and love me, as 

I love 
The people I whom God aid ! 

Feria. You will be Queen, 

.\nd, were I Philip— 
Elizabeth. Wherefore pause you — 

what ? 
Feria. Nay, but I speak from mine 
own self, not him ; 
Your royal sister cannot last ; your 

hand 
Will be much coveted ! What a 

delicate one ! 
Our .Spanish ladies have none such — 

and there. 
Were, you in Spain, this fine fair 

gossamer gold- 
Like sun-gilt breathings on a frosty 

dawn — 
That hovers round your shoulder — 

Elizabeth. Is it so fine ? 

Troth, some have said so. 
Feria. — would be deemed a mir- 
acle. 
Elizabeth. Your Philip hath gold 
hair and golden beard ; 
Tliere must be ladies many with hair 
like mine. 
Feria. .Some few of Gothic blood 
have golden hair. 





But none like yours. 

Elizabeth. I am happy you ap- 
prove it. 
Feria. But as to Philip and your 

Grace — consider, — 
If such a one as you should match 

with Spain, 
What hinders but that Spain and 

England join'd, 
Should make the mightiest empire 

earth has known. 
.Spain would be England on her seas, 

and England 
Mistress of the Indies. 
Elizabeth. It may chance, that 

England 
Will be the Mistress of the Indies 

Without the help of Spain. 

Feria. Impossible ; 

E.\cept you put Spain down. 
Wide of the mark ev'n for a mad- 
man's dream. 
Elizabeth. Perhaps ; but we have 

seamen. Count de Feria, 
I take it that the King hath spoken 

to you ; 
But is Don Carlos such a goodly 

match ? 
Feria. Don Carlos, Madam, is but 

twelve years old. 
Elizabeth. Ay, tell the King that 

I will muse upon it; 
He is my good friend, and I would 

keep him so ; 
But— he would have me Catholic of 

Rome, 
And that I scarce can be ; and, sir, 

till now 
My sister's marriage, and my father's 

marriages, 
Make me full fain to live and die a 

maid. 
But I am much beholden to vour 

King. 
Have you aught else to tell me.' 

Feria. Nothing, Madam, 

Save that methought I gathered from 

the Queen 
That she would see your Grace before 

she — died. 
Elizabeth. God's death ! and where- 
fore spake you not before ? 





Queen Alary. 



We dally with our lazy moments i 
here, j 

And hers are number'd. Horses i 
there, without ! 

I am much beholden to the King. 

Why did you keep me prating ? 

Horses, there ! 

{Exit Elizabeth, etc. 
Fc-ria. So from a clear sky falls 

the thunderbolt ! 
Don Carlos ? Madam, if vou marry 

Philip, 
Then I and he will snaffle vour ' God's 

death.' 
And break your paces in, and make 

you tame ; 
God's death, forsooth — vou do not 

know King Philip.' \Exit. 



A light burning ivilititi. Voices of 
the night passi)ig. 

First. Is not yon light in the 

Queen's chamber .' 
Second. .Ayj 

They sav she's dying. 

First.' .So" is Cardinal Pole. 

May the great angels join their wings, 

and make 
Down for their heads to heaven ! 
Second. .'Kmen. Come on. 

\Exeunt. 

Two Others. 

First. There's the Queen's light. 

I hear she cannot live. 
Second. God curse her and her 
Legate ! Gardiner burns 
Alreadv ; but to pay them full in 

kind, 
The hottest hold in all the devil's 



Were but a sort of winter ; 

Guernsey. 
I watch'd a woman burn : and 





The mother came upon her — a child 

was born — 
.And, sir, they hurl'd it back into the 

fire, 
That, being but baptized in fire, the 

babe 
Might be in fire forever. Ah, good 

neighbor. 
There should be something fierier 

than fire 
To yield them their deserts. 

First. Amen to all 

Your wish, and further. 

A Thud Voice. Deserts! Amen 
to what.' Whose deserts.' Yours.' 
You have a gold ring on your fin- 
ger, and soft raiment about your 
body; and is not the woman up yon- 
der sleeping after all she has done, in 
peace and quietness, on a soft bed, in 
a closed room, with light, fire, physic, 
tendance; and I have seen the true 
men of Christ lying famine-dead by 
scores, and under no ceiling but the 
cloud that wept on them, not for 
them. 

First. Friend, tho' so late, it is not 

safe to preach. 
You had best go home. What are 

Third. ' What am I ? One who 
cries continually with sweat and tears 
to the Lord God that it would please 
Him out of His infinite love to break 
down all kingship and queenship, all 
priesthood and prelacy; to cancel and 
abolish all bonds of human allegiance, 
all the magistracy, all the nobles, 
and all the wealthy ; and to send us 
again, according to His promise, the 
one King, the Christ, and all things in 
common, as in the day of the first 
church, when Christ Jesus was 

King. 
First. If ever I heard a madman, 

— let's away ! 

Why, you long-winded Sir, you 

go beyond me. 
I pride myself on being moderate. 
Goodnight! Go home. Besides, you 

curse so loud. 
The watch will hear vou. Get you 

!,on,e at once. ' \Exeiuit. 





A GalUyy on one side. The moonlight 
streaming through a range of win- 
doTivs on the wall opposite. Mary, 
Lady Clarence, Lady Magdalen 
Dacres, Alice. Qvv.^-k pacing the 
Gallery. A writing-table in front. 
Queen comes to the table and writes 
and goes again^ pacing the Gallery. 

Lady Clarence. Mine eyes are dim : 

what hath she written ? read. 
Alice. 'I am dying, Philip ; come 

Lady Ma»dalen. There— up and 
down, poor lady, up and down. 

Alice. And how her shadow 
crosses one by one 
The moonlight casements pattern'd 

on the wall. 
Following her like her sorrow. She 
turns again. 
[Queen sits and writes, and goes 



Lady 
Alice. 



What hath 



Clar. 

itten now.' 

Nothing; but 'come, come, 
come,' and all awry. 
And blotted by her tears. This can- 
not last. [Queen returns. 
■ Mary. I whistle to the bird has 

broken cage, 

And all in vain. [Sitting down. 

Calais gone — Guisnes gone, too — and 

Philip gone ! 

Lady Clarence. Dear Madam, 

Philip is but at the wars ; 

I cannot doubt but that he comes 

again ; 
And he is with you in a measure still. 
I never look'd upon so fair a likeness 
As vour great King in armor there, 

his iiand 
Upon his helmet. 

[Poiiitiii:; to the portrait o/ Philip 
on the wall. 
Mary. Uoth he not look noble ? 
I had heard of him in battle over 

seas. 
And I would have my warrior all in 





Mary. 



He said it 

heln 
Before the Qu 

cious 
Altho' you'll not believe me. How 

he smiles 
As if he loved me yet I 

Lady Clarence. And so he does. 
Mary. He never loved me — nay, 

he could not love me. 
It was his father's policy against 

France. 
I am eleven years older than he. 
Poor boy I [ Weeps. 

Alice. That was a lusty boy of 

twenty-seven ; [Aside. 

Poor enough in God's grace .' 

Mary. — And all in vain ! 

The Queen of Scots is married to the 

Dauphin, 
And Charles, the lord of this low 

world, is gone ; 
And all his wars and wisdoms past 

away; 
And in a moment I shall follow him. 
Lady Clarence. Nay, dearest Lady, 

see your good physician. 
Mary. Drugs — but he knows they 

cannot help me — says 
That rest is all— tells me I must not 

think- 
That I must rest— I shall rest by and 

by. 
Catch the wild cat, cage him, and 

when he springs 
And maims himself against the bars, 

sav ' rest ' : 
Why, voii must kill him if you wcuild 

have him rest- 
Dead or alive you cannot make him 

happy. 
Lady Clarence. Your Majesty has 

lived so pure a life. 
And done such mighty things by Holy 

Church, 
I tru.st that God will make vou happy 

yet. • 
Mary. What is the strange thing 

hajipiness ? Sit down here : 
Tell me thine happiest hour. 

Lady Clarence. I will, if that 

May make vour Grace forget vourself 

a little. 





Qiucn Ma, 



There runs a shallow brook across 
our field 

For twenty miles, where the black 
crow flies five. 

And doth so bound and babble all 
the way 

As if itself were happy. It was May- 
time, 

And I was walking with the man I 
loved. 

I loved him, but I thought I was not 
loved. 

And both were silent, letting the wild 
brook 

.Speak for us— till he stoop'd and 
gather'd one 

From out a bed of thick forget-me- 
nots, 

Look'd hard and sweet at me, and 
gave it me. 

I took it, tho' I did not know I took 






, and all at 



about me, and his 



And put it 

once 
I felt his 

lips 

Mary. O God I I have been too 

salck, too slack ; 
There are Hot Gospellers even among 

our guards — 
Nobles we dared not touch. We 

have but burnt 
The heretic priest, workmen, and 

women and children. 
Wet, famine, ague, fever, storm, wreck. 

We have so play'd the coward ; but 

by God's grace. 
We'll follow Philip's leading, and set 

up 
The Holy Office here — garner the 

And burn the tares with unquencha- 
ble fire ! 

Burn ! — 

Fie, wha 

close 

The doors of all the offices bel 



.Sit, we are private with our wor 

here— 
Ever a rough, blunt, and uncou 



tell the cooks to 





Thou light a torch th 

'Tis out — mine flames. Women, the 

Holy Father 
Has ta'en the legateship from our 

cousin Pole- 
Was that well done? and poor Pole 

pines of it, 
.^s I do, to the death. I am but a 

I have no power. — Ah, weak and 

meek old man. 
Seven-fold dishonored even in the 

sight 
Of thine own sectaries — No, no. No 

pardon ! — 
Why that was false: there is the right 

hand still 
Beckons me hence. 
Sir, you were burnt for heresy, not 

for treason. 
Remember that I 'twas I and Bonner 

did it, 
And Pole ; we are three to one — 

Have you found mercy there, 
Grant it me here : and see, he smiles 



Alice. 



Mada 



iho 



Phi; 



goes .' 



ing 



Mary. No, Philip conies and goes,, 
but never goes. 
Women, when I am dead. 
Open my heart, and there you will 

Two names, Philip and Calais; open 

So that he have one, — 

Vou will find Philip onIy> policy, 

policy, — 
Av, worse than that — not one hour 

true to me ! 
Foul maggots crawling m a fester'd 



to the 



heart of 



Alic, 



Ay, Madam, but o' God's 

Mary. Fool, think'st thou I would 
peril mine own soul 
By slaughter of the body.' I could 
not, girl, 





Queen Mary. 



this way — callous with a constant 



Unwoundable. The knife ! 

AUif. Take heed, take heed ! 

The blade is keen as death. 

Mary. This Philip shall not 

Stare in upon me in my haggard- 

ness; 
Old, miserable, diseased, 
Incapable of children. Come thou 
down. 
[Cuts out the picture and I/trows it 
down. 
Lie there. (Wtiils) O God, I have 
kill'd my Philip ! 
Alice. No, 

Madam, you have but cut the canvas 

We can replace it. 

Mary. All is well then ; rest— 

I will to rest ; he said, I must have 



[Cru 

ry! V 

volt 



Wha 



A new Northumberland, another 

Wyatt .' 
I'll fight it on the threshold of the 

grave. 
Lady Clarence. Madam, your royal 

sister comes to see you. 
Mary. I will not see her. 
Who knows if Boleyn's daughter be 

my sister } 
I will see none except the priest. 

Your ami. 

{To Lady Clarence. 
O Saint of Aragon, with that sweet 

worn smile 
Among thy patient wrinkles — Help 

me hence. \Exeunt. 

The Priest passes. Enter Eliza- 
beth «»(/ Sir William Cecil. 
Elizabeth. Good counsel yours — 
No one in waiting ? still, 
As if the chamberlain were Death 



The room she sleeps in — is not this 

the way ? 
No, that way there are voices. Am I 

too late .' 





Cecil . . . God guide me lest I lose 

the way. ^Exit Elizabeth. 

Cecil. Many points weather'd, 

many perilous ones. 
At last a harbor opens ; but there- 
Sunk rocks — they need fine steering 

— much it is 
To be nor mad, nor bigot — have a 

mind — 
Nor let Priests' talk, or dream of 

worlds to be, 
Miscolor things about her — sudden 

touches 
For him, or him — sunk rocks; no 

passionate faith — 
But — if let be — balance and compro- 
mise ; 
Brave, wary, sane to the heart of her 

— a 'Tudor 
School' d by the shadow of death — a 

Boleyn, too. 
Glancing across the Tudor — not so 

well. 



Enter Alice. 

How is the good Queen now .' 

Alice. Away from Philip. 

Back in her childhood — prattling to 

her mother 
Of her betrothal to the Emperor 

Charles, 
And childlike-jealous of him again — 

and once 
She thank'd her father sweetly for his 

Against that godless German. Ah, 

those days 
Were happy. It was never merry 

world 
In England, since the Bible came 
among us. 
Cecil. And who says that .> 
Alice. It is a saying among the 

Catholics. 
Cecil. It never will be merry world 
in England, 
Till all men have their Bible, rich and 
poor. 
Alice. The Queen is dying, or you 
dare not say it. 





Q/uvn Mary. 



Enter ELIZABETH. 
ElhaOcth. The Queen is dead. 
Cecil. Then here she stands ! my 

homage. 

EUzaheth. She knew me, and ac- 
knowledged me her heir, 

Prav'd me to pay her debts, and keep 
the Faith ; 

Then claspt the cross, and pass'd 
away in peace. 

I left her lying still and beautiful, 

More beautiful than in life. Why 
would you vex vourself. 

Poor sister .> Sir, I swear I have no 
heart 

To be your Queen. To reign is rest- 
less fence. 

Tierce, quart, and trickery. Peace is 
with the dead. 

Her life was winter, for her spring 
was nipt : 

And she loved much : pray God she 
be forgiven. 




Cecil. Peace with the dead, who 
never were at peace I 

Yet she loved one so much — I needs 
must say — 

That never English monarch dying 
left 

England so little. 

Elizabeth. But with Cecil's aid 

And others, if our person be se- 
cured 

From traitor stabs — we will make 
England great. 

Enter Paget, and other Lords of 
THE Council, Sir Ralph Bagen- 
HALL, etc. 
Lords. God save Elizabeth, the 

Queen of England ! 
Bagenhall. God save the Crown ! 

the Papacy is no more. 
Paget (aside). Are we so sure of 

that? 
Acclamation. God save the Queen ! 






HAROLD: 

A DRAMA. 

To His Excellency 

THE RIGHT HON. LORD LYTTON, 

/ 'iceroy and Governor- General of India. 
LoED Lytton.— After old-world records — such as the Baye 




Roman de Rou,— Edward Freeman's History of the Norman Conqi 
Historical Romance treating of the same times, have been mainly he 
this Drama. Your father dedicated his ' Harold ' to my father's 
dedicate my ' Harold ' to yourself. 



Ipfu 



A. TENNYSON. 



SHOW-DAY AT BATTLE ABBEY, 1876. 

A GARDEM here— May breath and bloom of spring- 
The cuckoo yonder from an English elm 
Crying ' with 1 " " 



Thena 



ltd fancy hea 



ring 



Of harnes.s, and that deatlifnl arrow snig. 

And .Sa.xon battlea.xe clang on Norman helm. 

Here rose the dragon-banner of our realm : 

Here fought, here fell, our Norman-slander'd king. 

O Garden blossoming out of English blood ! 

O strange hate-healer Time ! We stroll and stare 

Where might made right eight hundred years ago; 

Might, right ? ay good, so all things make for good 

But he and he, if soul be soul, are where 

Each stands full face with all he did below. 



DRA MA TIS PERSON AS. 
King Edward the Confessor. 

Stigand, created A rchbiskop of Canterbury by the A ntipppe Benedict. 
Aldred, Archbishop of York. The Norman Bishop of L 

Harold, Earl 0/ IVessex, afterguards Kingof Englan 
TosTiG, Earl of Northumbria 
GuRTH, Earldf East Anglia 
Leofwin, Earl of Kent and Essex 
wulfnoth 

Count William of Normandy. Wii 

William Malet, a Norman Noble.^ 
Kovim.EarlofMercia 

Morcar, Earl of Northumbria after Tostig 
Gamel, a Northumbrian Thane. 
Rolf, a Ponthieu Fis/ierman. 
OsGOD and Athelric, Canons from Waltham. 
The Queen, Edivard the Confessor's Wife, Daughter of God-win. 

TH, Daughter of A If gar and Widow of Griffyth, King of Wales. 
Edith, Ward of King Edward. 
Courtiers, Earls and Thanes, Men-at-Arms, Canons of Waltham, Fisherm 



I Sons of A If gar of 






Aldwyth, Gamel, Courtiers talk- 
ing together. 

First Courtier. Lo ! there once 
more — this is the seventh 
nighl ! 
Yon grimly-glaring, treble-brandish'd 

scourge 
Of England ! 

Second Courtier. Horrible ! 
First Courtier. Look you, there's 
a star 
That dances in it as mad with agony ! 
Third Courtier. Ay, like a spirit 
in Hell who skips and flies 
To right and left, and caimot scape 
the flame. 
Second Courtier. Steam'd upward 
from the undescendible 
Abysm. 

First Courtier. Or floated down- 
ward from the throne 
Of God Almighty. 

Aldwyth. Gamel, son of Orm, 

What t'hinkest thou this means ? 
Gomel. War, mv dear lady ! 

Aldwyth. Doth this affright thee ? 
Gamel. Mightily, my den'" lady ! 

Aldwyth. .Stand by me then, and 
look upon my face. 
Not on the comet. 

[Enter Morcar.) 



Brother ! why so pali 
glares in heaven, 
on the Thames, 



Morcar. 1 1 
flares up 
The people are as thick as bees below, 
They hum like bees, — they cannot 

speak — for awe ; 
Look to the skies, then to the river, 




and hold their babie 



up 




I think that they would Molochi; 

them too. 
To have the heavens clear. 

Aldwyth. They fright not me. 

(Enter Leofwin, after him GURTH.) 

Ask 'thou Lord Leofwin what he 
thinks of this ! 
Morcar. Lord Leofwin, dost tliou 
believe, that these 

Three rods of blood-red fire up yon- 
der mean 

The doom of England and the wrath 
of Heaven .' 
Bishop of London (passing). Did 
ye not cast with bestial vio- 
lence 

Our holy Norman bishops down from 



all 
Their thrones 



1 England.' 
Heaven be ' 



Why should i 

Leofwin. With us. or thee.' 

Bishop of London. Did ve not nut- 
law your archbishop Robert, 
Robert of Jumieges — well-nigh mur- 
der him too .' 
Is there no reason for the wrath of 
Heaven ? 
Leofwin. Whv then the wrath of 
Heaven hath three tails. 
The devil only one. 

[Exit Bishop of Londcin. 

(Enter ARCHBISHOP Stigand.) 

Ask our Archbishop. 
Stigand should know the purposes of 
Heaven. 
Stigand. Not L I cannot read the 
face of heaven ; 
Perhaps our vines will grow the better 
for it. 
Leofwin (laughing). He can but 
read the king's face on his 
coins. 
Stigand. Ay, ay, young lord, there 

the king's face is power. 
Gurth. O father, mock not at a 
public fear. 
But tell us, is this pendent hell m 



heav 



A ha 



England \ 





England. 
Old uncanonical Stigand— ask of nu 
Who had my pallium from an Anti- 

pope ! 
Not he the man— for in our vvindv 

world 
What's up is faith, ivhat's down is 

heresy. 
Our friends, the Normans, holp to 

shake his chair. 
I have a Norman fever on me, son, 
And cannot answer sanely . 

What it means .' 
Ask our broad Earl. 

{Pointing to Harold, who enters 
Harold (seeing Gamel). Hail, 
Gamel, son of Orm ! 
Albeit no rolling stone, my good 

fnend Gamel, 
Thou hast rounded since we met 

Thy life at home 
Is eas.er than mine here. Look! 

am I not 
Workwan, flesh-fallen > 

Gamel Art thou sick, good Earl .' 
Harold. Sick as an autumn swal- 
low for a voyage, 
Sick for an idle week of hawk and 

hound 
Beyond the seas— a change ! When 
camest thou hither.' 
Gamel. To-day, good Earl 
^aroU. Is the North quiet, 

Gamel .> ^ 

Gamel. Nav, there be murmurs, 
,,,. , 'o'' fny brother breaks us 
With over-taxing-quiet, ay, as vet- 
Nothing as yet. 

Harold. Stand by him, mine old 
fnend. 
Thou art a great voice in Northum- 
berland ! 
Advise him: speak him sweetlv, he 

will hear thee. 
He is passionate but honest. Stand 

thou by him! 
More talk of this to-morrow, if yon 

weird sign 
Not blast us in our dreams.- Well, 
father .Stigand — 
[ 7;. Stigand. who advances to h. 



''Id [po,nt,ng to the eomel). 
War there, my son > is that the 
doom of England .' 
Harold Why not the doom of all 
the world as well > 
For all the world sees it as well as 
England. 



These 1 



and 



before 



the 



our day 
Not harming any: it threatens 



Than French or Norman. 

worst that follows 
Things that seem jerk'd out of the 

common rut 
Of Nature is the hot religious fool, 
Who, seeing war in heaven, for 

heaven's credit 
Makes it on earth : but look, where 

Edward draws 
A faint foot hither, leaning upon Tos- 

He hath learnt to love our Tostig 
much of late. 
Leo/win. And he hath learnt, de- 
spite the tiger in him, 
To sleek and supple himself to the 
king's hand. 
Gitrth I trust the kiiiglv touch 
that cures the evil 
May serve to charm the tiger out of 
him. 
Leo/win. He hath as much of cat 
as tiger in him. 
Our Tostig loves the hand and not 
the man. 
Harold. Nav ! Better 






Half Norman-blooded, nor as soni 

have held, 
Because 1 love the Norman better- 



But dreading God's revenge upon this 

realm 
For narrowness and coldness : and I 

say it 
For the last time perchance, before I 



To find the sweet refreshment of the 

Saints. 
I have lived a life of utter purity : 
i have builded the great church of 

Holy Peter -• 
I have wrought miracles — to God the 

glory — 
And miracles will in my name be 

wrought 
Hereafter.— I have fought the fight 

and go— 
I see the flashing of the gates of 




And : 






gone 



with me, tho' some of 
me— av— but after I am 



Woe, woe to England ! I have had a 

vision ; 
The seven sleepers in the cave at 

Ephesus 
Have turn'd from right to left. 

Harold. Mv most dear Master, 

What matters? let them turn from 

left to right 
And sleep again. 

Toslig. Too hardy with thy king ! 
A life of prayer and fasting well may 

Deeper into the mysteries of heaven 
Than thou, good brother. 

Aldwyth [aside). Sees he into thine, 
That thou wouldst have his promise 

for the crown ? 
Edward. Tostig says true ; my 

son, tliou art too hard. 
Not stagger'd by this ominous earth 

and heaven : 
But heaven and earth are threads of 

the same loom. 
Play into one another, and weave the 



That may confound thee yet. 



Harold. Nay, 

For I have served thee 
honestly. 
Edward. I know it, son ; I ; 
thankless : thou 
Hast broken all my foes, lighten'd for 

The weight of this poor crown, and 
left me time 

And peace for prayer to gain a better 
one. 

Twelve years of service ! England 
1 loves thee for it. 

I Thou art the man to rule her ! 
I Aldwyth [aside). So, not Tostig ! 
I Harold. And after those twelve 
! vears a boon, my king, 

I Respite, a holiday : thyself wast wont 
I To love the chase : thy leave to set 

On board, and hunt and hawk beyond 
the seas ! 
Edward. What with this flaming 

horror overhead ? 
Harold. Well, when it jjasses then. 
Edward. Ay if it pass. 

Go not to Normandy — go not to Nor- 
mandy. 
Harold. And wherefore not, my 
king, to Normandy i" 
Is not my brother Wulfnoth hostage 

there 
For my dead father's loyalty to thee ? 
I pray thee, let me hence and bring 
him home. 
Edward. Not thee, my son: some 

other messenger. 
Harold. And why not , me, my 
lord, to Normandy .' 
Is not the Norman Count thy friend 




and 1 



ine ; 



Edward. I pray thee, do not go to 

Normandy. 
Harold. Because my father drove 
the Normans out 
Of England .•■ — That was many a sum- 
mer gone — 
Forgotten and forgiven by them and 
thee. 
Edward. Harold, I will not yield 





In Flanders. 
Eihvard. Be there not fair woods 

and fields 
In England ? Wilful, wilful. Go— 

the Saints 
Pilot and prosper all thy wandering 

And homeward. Tostig, I am faint 

again. 
Son Harold, I will in and pray for 

thee. 
{Exit, leaning on Tostig, and 

followed by Stigand, Morcar, 

and Courtiers. 
Harold. What lies upon the mind 

of our good king 
That he should harp this way on Nor- 
mandy ? 
Queen. Brother, the king is wiser 

than he seems ; 
And Tostig knows it ; Tostig loves 

the king. 
Harold. And love should know ; 

and — be the king so wise, — 
Then Tostig too were wiser than he 

seems. 
I love the man but not his phantasies. 

(Re-enter Tostig.) 

Well, brother. 

When didst thou hear from thy North- 

umbria ? 

Tostn;. When did I hear aught but 

this • When ' from thee .' 

Leave me alone, brother, with my 

Northumbria : 
She is mv mistress, let me look to 

her'! 
The king hath made' me Earl ; make 

me not fool ! 
Nor make the King a fool, who made 
me Earl ! 
Harold. No, Tostig— lest I make 
myself a fool 
Who made the King who made thee, 
make thee Earl. 
Tostig. Why chafe me then .' 

Thou knowest I soon go wild. 
Gnrth. Come, come ! as yet thou 
art not gone so wild 
But thou canst hear the best and 
of us. 





Harold. So says old tiurth, not I : 

vet hear ! thine earldom, 
Tostig,' hath been a kingdom. Their 

old crown 
Is yet a force among them, a sun set 
But leaving light enough fG>r Alfgar's 

house 
To strike thee down by — nay, this 

ghastly glare 
May heat their fancies. 

Tostig. ybj most worthy brother, 
Thou art the quietest man in all the 

world- 
Ay, ay and wise in peacs and great in 

Pray God the people choose thee for 

their king! 
But all the powers of the house of 

Godwin 
Are not enfranved in thee. 

Harold. Thank the Saints, no ! 

But thou hastdrain'd them shallow by 

thy tolls. 
And thou art ever here about the 

King : 
Thine absence well may seem a want 

of care. 
Cling to their love ; for, now the-3ons 

of Godwin 
Sit topmost in the field of England, 

envy. 
Like the rough bear beneath the tree, 

good brother, 
Waits till the man let go. 

Tostig. (Jood counsel truly ! 

I heard from m.y Northumbria yester- 
day. 
Harold. How goes it then with 

thv Northumbria? Well? 
Tostig'. And wouldst thou that it 

went auc;ht else than well ? 
Harold. I W(n.ld it went as well as 
with mine earldom, 
Leofwin's and tiurth's. 

Tostig. \it govern milder men. 

Gnrth. We have made them 

milder by just government. 
Tostig. K'j, ever give yourselves 

your own good word. 
Leo/win. An hoivest gift, byall the 
Saints, if givef 
And taker be but honest ." l>ut they 
bribe 





Each other, and so often, an honest 

world 
Will not believe them. 

Harold. I may tell thee, Tostig, 

I heard from thy Northumberland to- 
day. 
Tostig. From spies of thine to 
spy my nakedness 
In my poor North I 
Htirohi. There is a movement 
there, 
A blind one — nothing yet. 

Tostig. Crush it at once 

With all the power I have ! — I must 

—I will !— 
Crush it half-born ! Fool still .'' or 

wisdom there, 
My wise head-shaking Harold .' 

Harold. IMake not thou 

The nothing something. Wisdom 

when in power 
And wisest, should not frown as 

Power, but smile 
As kindness, watching all, till the true 



as Power : but 



Shall make he 

when to strike — 
O Tostig, O dear brother— If they 

jjrance, 
Rein in, not lash them, lest they rear 

and run 
And break both neck and a.xle. 

Tostig. Good again ! 

Good counsel tho' scarce needed. 

Pour not water 
In the full vessel running out at 

top 
To swamp the house. 

Leo/will. Nor thou be a wild thing 
Out of the waste, to turn and bite the 

hand 
Would help thee from the trap. 

Tosti.-. Thou plavest in tune. 

Leofwiu. To the deaf adder thee, 
that wilt not dance 
However wisely charm'd. 

Tostig. No more, no more ! 

likewise cry ' no more.' 
Unwholesome talk 
or ( loilwin's house! Leofwin, thou 

h:ist a tongue ! 
iistie;, thou look'st as thou wouldst 
spring upon him. 





St. Olaf, not while I ; 

come, 
Join hands, let brethren dwell in unity ; 
Let kith and kin stand close as our 

shield-wall, 
Who breaks us then } I say, thou 

hast a tongue. 
And Tostig is not stout enough to 

bear it. 
Vex him not, Leofwin. 

Tostig. No, I am not ve.xt,— 

Altho' ye seek to vex me, one and all. 
I have to make report of my good 

earldom 
To the good king who gave it — not to 

you— 
Not any of vou.— I am not vext at all. 
Harold. 'The king.? the king is 
ever at his prayers; 
In all that handles matter of the state 
I am the king. 

Tostig. That shalt thou never be 
If I can thwart thee. 
Harold. Brother, brother ! 

Tostig. Awav ! 

\E.xit Tostig. 
Queen. Spite of this grisly star ye 
three must gall 
Poor Tostig. 

Uofrou:. Tostig, sister, galls him- 

He cannot smell a rose but pricks his 

Against the thorn, and rails against 

the rose. 
Queen. I am the only rose of all 

the stock 
That never thorn 'd him ; Edward 

loves him, so 
Ye hate him. Harold always hated 

him. 
Why — how they fought when boys — 

and. Holy Mary ! 
How Harold used to beat him ! 

Harold. Why, boys will fight. 

Leofwin would often fight me, and I 

beat him. 
Even old Gurth would fight. I had 

much ado 
To hold mine own against old Gurth. 

Old Gurth, 
We fought like great states for grave 

cause ; but Tostig — 





Till thou wouldst get him all apart, 

and tell him 
That where he was but worsted, be 

Ah ! thou hast taught the king to 

s|)oil him too; 
Now the spoilt child sways both. 

Take heed, take heed; 
Thou art the Queen ; ye are boy and 



Side 



not with Tostig in 
thou be sideways ; 



Queen. Come fall not foul on me. 

I leave thee, brother. 
Harold. Nay, my good sister — 
\Exeunt Queen, Harold, Gurth, 

and Leofwin. 
Aldwyth. Gamel, son of Orm, 

What tiiinkest thou this means .' 

\Pointing to tlie comet. 
Gamel. War, my dear lady, 

War, waste, plague, famine, all ma- 
lignities. 
AUkayth. It means the fall of 

Tostig from his eaildoni. 
Gamel. That were tco small a 

matter for a comet ! 
Aldwyth. It means the lifting of 

the house of Alfgar. 
Gamel. Too small ! a comet would 

not show tor thai ! 
Aihuyth. Not small for thee, if 

thou canst compass it. 
Gamel. Thy love .' 
Aldwylh. ' As much as I can give 

This Tostig is, or like 

tyrant ; 
Stir up thy people : oust hi: 



be, a 



nel. 
Aldwyth. As much a; 

bear. 
Gamel. I 

And not be giddy. 

Ahksjytk. No more 
morrow. 




can bear all. 



Edith. Mad for thy mate, passion- 
ate nightingale . . . 
I love thee for it — ay, but stay a 

moment ; 
He can but stay a moment : he is 

going. 
I fain would hear him coming 1 . . . 

near me . . near. 
Somewhere — To draw him nearer with 

a charm 
Like thine to thine. 

{Singing.) 
Love is come with a song and a smile. 
Welcome Love with a smile and a 

song : 
Love can stay but a little while. 
Why cannot he stay? They call him 

away : 
Ye do him wrong, ye do him wrong ; 
Love will stay for a whole life long. 

Enter HAROLD. 
Harold. The nightingales in 
llaveringatte-Bower 
Sang out their loves so loud, that 

Edward's prayers 
Were deafen'd and he pray'd them 

dumb, and thus 

I dumb thee too, my wingless niohtin- 

gale ! \Kiss,ul' her. 

Edith. Thou art my music! 

Would their wings ueru niine 

To follow thee to llaiuicl Must 

thoi 

Harold. 

but for one moon. 
Edith. Leaving so many foes in 
Edward's hall 
To league against thy weal. The 

Lady Aldwyth 
Was here to-day, and when she 

touch 'd on thee. 
She stamiTier'd in her hate ; I am sure 

she hates thee, 
Pants for thy blood. 
Harold. ' Well, I have given her 
cause — 
I fear no ' 














/<CT 1 1 -5 ?. \ 1 [VI 


>N 




t 


«'K-NE 11. Harold. 299 


\ 


Edith. Hate not one who felt 


But thou didst back thyself against a 






Some pity for thy hater 1 I am sure 


pillar. 


. . 








Her morning wanted sunlight, she so 


And strike among them with thy 








e-^ praised 


battle-axe— <A> 






The convent and lone life— within the 


There, what a dream ! 






Bevond the passion. Nay— she held 
with Edward, 


Harold. Well, well— a dream- 






no more ! 






Edith. Did not Heaven speak to 






At least methought she held with holy 


men in dreams of old .> 






Edward, 


Harold. Av— well— of old. I tell 






That marriage was half sin. 


thee what, mv child ; 






//aro/d. A lesson worth 


Thou hast misread 'this merry dream 






Finger and thumb— thus {sim/is his 


of thine, 






fingers). And my answer to 


Taken the rifted pillars of the wood 






it- 


For smooth stone columns of the 






See here— an interwoven H and E ! 


sanctuary, 






Take thou this ring ; I will demand 


The shadows 6f a hundred fat dead 






his ward 


deer 






From Edward when I come again. 


For dead men's ghosts. True, that 






Ay, would she } 


the battle-axe 






.She to shut up my blossom in the 


Was out of place; it should have 






dark ! 


been the bow.— 






Thou art mv nun, thy cloister in mine 


Come, thou shalt dream no more such 






arms. 


dreams ; I swear it. 






Edith (taking the ring). Yea, but 


By mine own eves — and these two 






Earl Tostig— 


sapphires— these 






Harold. That's a truer fear ! 


Twin rubies, that are amulets against 






For if the North take fire, I should be 


all 






back; 


The kisses of all kind of womankind 






I shall be, soon enough. 


In Flanders, till the sea shall roll me 






Edith. Ay, but last night 


back 






.•\n evil dream that ever came and 


To tumble at thy feet. 








Edith. That would but shame 






Harold. A gnat that vext thy 


me, 






pillow ! Had I been by, 


Rather than make me vaui. The sea 






I would have spoil'd his horn. My 


may roll 
Sand, shingle, shore-weed, not the 






girl, what was it .' 






Edit'h. Oh ! that thon wert not go- 


living rock 






ing ! 


Which guards the land. 






For so methought it was our mar- 


Harold. Except it be a soft one, 






riage-niorn. 


And undereaten to the fall. Mine 






And while we stood together, a dead 


anuilet . . . 






man 


This l.ist . . . upon thine eyelids, to 






Rose from behind the altar, tore 


shut in 






away 


A happier dream. Sleep, sleep, and 






Wy marriage ring, and rent mv bridal 


thou shalt see 






^ ^^i' ; 


My grayhounds fleeting like a beam of 






^ And then I turn'd, and saw the church 


light, ey 






J 


all fiird 


.•\nd hear my peregrine and her bells 










With dead men upright from their 


in heaven ; 


■ 








graves, and all 


And other bells on earth, which yet 










The dead men made at thee to mur- 


are heaven's ; 








1 


der thee, 

K, , ■ 


Guess what they be. 






•] 1 12 i. 1 1 iijy 












Edith. He cannot guess who 
knows. 
Farewell, mv king. 



queen. 



yet, but then- 
[Ax, 



Enter Aldwyth from the thicket. 
Ahiwyth. The kiss that charms 

thine eyelids into sleep, 
Will hold mine waking. Hate him .' 

I could love him 
More, tenfold, than this fearful child 

can do ; 
Griffyth I hated : why not hate the foe 
Of England? Griffyth when I saw 

him flee, 
Chased deer-like up his mountains, all 

the blood 
That should have only pulsed for 

Griffyth, beat 
For his pur.suer. I love him or think 

I love him. 
If he were King of England, I his 

queen, 
I might be sure of it. Nay, I do love 

him.— 
She must be cloister'd somehow, lest 

the king 
Should yield his ward to Harold's 

will. What harm >. 
She hath but blood enough to live, 

not love. — 
When Harold goes and Tostig, shall 

I play 
The craftier Tostig with him ? fawn 

upon him ? 
Chime in with all .> 'O thou more 

saint than king ! ' 
And that were true enough. 'O 

blessed relics ! ' 
' O Holy Peter ! ' If he found me 

thus, 
Harold might hate me; he is broad 

and honest, 
Breathing an easy gladness . . . not 

like Aldwyth . . . 
For which I strangely love him. 

Should not England 
I.ove Aldwyth, if she stay the feuds 

that part 
The sons of Godwin from the sons of 

Alfgar 





By such a marrying .' Courage, noble 

Aldwyth ! 
Let all thy people bless thee ! 

Our wild Tostig, 
Edward hath made him Earl : he 

would be king : — 
The dog that snapt the shadow, dropt 

the bone. — 
I trust he may do well, this Gamel, 

I play upon, that he may play the 

Whereat the dog shall howl and run, 

and Harold 
Hear the king's music, all alone with 

him, 
Pronounced his heir of England. 
I see the goal and half the way to 

it. — 
Peace-lover is our Harold for the 

sake 
Of England's wholeness — so — to 

shake the North 
With earthquake and disruption — 

some division — 
Then fling mine own fair person in 

the gap 
A sacrifice to Harold, a peace-offer- 



ng. 



-all the sins 



A scape-goat n' 

of both 
The houses on mine head — then a 

fair life 
And bless the Queen of England. 
Morcar (coming from the thicket). 
Art thou assured 
By this, that Harold loves but Edith ? 
Aldwyth. Morcar ! 

Why creep'st thou like a timorous 

beast of prey 
Out of the bush by night ? 

.Vorcr. I foUow'd thee. 

Aldwyth. Follow my lead, and I 

will make thee earl. 
Morcar. What lead then ? 
Aldwyth. Thou shalt flash it se- 
cretly 
Among the good Northumbrian folk, 

that I — 
That Harold loves me— yea, and 

presently 
That I and Harold are betrntird- 
and last — 





Perchance that Harold \Yrongs me ; 

tho' I would not 
That it should come to that. 

Morcar. I will both flash 

And thunder for thee. 

Aldwyth. I said ' secretly ; ' 

It is the flash that murders, the poor 

thunder 
Never harm'd head. 

Alorcnr. But thunder may bring 
down 
That which the flash hath stricken. 

Ald-wyth. Down with Tostig ! 

That first of all. — And when doth 
Harold go .'' 
Morcar. To-morrow — first to Bo- 
sham, then to Flanders. 
Aldwvth. Not to come back till 
Tostig shall have shown 
And redden'd with his people's blood 

the teeth 
That shall be broken by us — yea, and 

thou 
Chair'd in his place. Good-night, and 

dream thyself 
Their chosen Earl. [Exit Aldwyth. 
Morcar. Earl first, and after that 
Who knows I may not dream myself 
their king ! 



Harold and his Men, 



ecked. 



Harold. Friends, in that last in- 
hospitable plunge 

Our boat hath burst her ribs ; but 
ours are whole ; 

I have but bark'd my hands. 

AlUndant. I dug mine into 

My old fast friend the shore, and 
clinging thus 

Felt the remorseless outdraught of 
the deep 

Haul like a great strong fellow at my 
legs. 

And then I rose and ran. The blast 
that came 

So suddenly hath fallen as suddenly — 





Put thou the comet and this blast 

together — 
Harold. Put thou thyself and 

mother-wit together. 
Be not a fool ! 



(Enter Fishermen 'with torches, H.\R- 
ouisoiiig up to one of them, RoLF.) 

Wicked sea-will-o'-the-wisp ! 
Wolf of the shore ! dog, with thy 

lying lights 
Thou hast betray'd us on these rocks 
of thine ! 
Rolf. Ay, but thou liest as loud 
as the black herring-pond behind 
thee. We be fishermen; I came to 
see after my nets. 

Harold. To drag us into them. 
Fishermen ? devils! 
Who, while ye fish for men with your 

false fires, 
Let the great Devil fish for your own 
souls. 
Rolf. Nay then, we be liker the 
blessed Apostles ; they were fishers of 
men. Father Jean says. 

Harold. I had liefer that the fish 
had swallowed me. 
Like Jonah, than have known there 

were such devils. 
What's to be done? 

[ To his Men — goesapartwith them. 
Fisherman. Rolf, what fish did 

swallow Jonah .' 
Rolf. A whale ! 

Fisherman. Then a whale to a 
whelk we have swallowed the King of 
England. I saw him over there. 
Look thee, Rolf, when I was down in 
the fever, she was down with the hun- 
ger, and thou didst stand by her and 
give her thy crabs, and set her up 
again, till now, by the patient Saints, 
she's as crabb'd as ever. 

Rolf. And I'll give her my crabs 
again, when thou art down again. 

Fisherman. I thank thee, Rolf. 
Run thou to Count Guy ; he is hard 
at hand. Tell him what hath crept 
into our creel, and he will fee thee as 
freely as he will wrench this outland- 
er's ransom out of him — and why not .' 





for what right had he to get himself 
wrecked on another man's land? 
Rolf. Thou art the human-hearted- 



Chr 



L-charitiest of all crab-catch- 



Share and share alike ! \Exit. 

Harold (to Fisherman). P'ellow, 
dost thou catch crabs? 

Fisherman, As few as I niav in a 
wind, and less than I would in a'calm. 
Ay! 

Harold. I have a mind that thou 
shalt catch no more. 

Fishennati. How? 

Harold. I have a mind to brain 
thee with mine axe. 

Fislicnnaii. .'\y. do, do, and our 
great Count-crab will make his nip- 
])ers meet in thine heart ; he'll sweat 
it out of thee, he'll svveat it out of 
thee. Look, he's here ! He'll speak 
for himself! Hold thine own, if thou 



Enti-r Guy, Count of Ponthieu. 

Harold. Guv, Count of Ponthieu ? 
Guv. Harold, Earl of Wessex! 

Harold. Thv villians with their 

Gay. Art tliou not' Earf of Wes- 

Harold. In mine earldom 

A man may hang gold bracelets on a 

bush. 
And leave them for a year, and com- 
ing back 
Find them again. 

Gay. Thou art a mighty man 

In thine own earldom ! 
Harold. Were such murderous 
liars 
In Wesse.\ — if I caught them, they 

should hang 
Cliff-gibbeted for sea-marks ; our sea- 
Winging their only wail ! 

Guy. Ay, but my men 

)ld that the shipwreckt are accursed 
of God ;— 
What hinders me to hold with mine 
own men ? 




Harold. The Chr 

of the man who ) 
Guy. .'\y, rave thy 
our oubliettes 
Thou shalt or rot or ransom. Hale 
him hence! [7i> oue of his 
Attendants. 
Fly thou to William ; tell him we 
have Harold. 



SCENE II.- 

COUNT Wll. 



-Kayeu.x. Palace, 



Malet. 
We hold 



and William 
Saxon 



William. W 

woodcock in the springe. 
But he begins to flutter. As I 

think 
He was thine host in England when I 

To visit Edward. 

MaU-t. Yea, and there, my lord, 

To make allowance for their rougher 

fashions, 
I found him all a noble host should 

be. 
William. Thou art his friend : 

thou know'st my claim on Eng- 
land 
Thro' Edward's promise : we have 

him in the toils. 
And it were well, if thou shouldst let 

him feel. 
How dense a fold of danger nets him 

round, 
So that he bristle himself against my 

Malct. What would I do, my lord, 

if I were you ? 

William. What wouldst thou do? 

.Malet. My lord, he is thy guest. 

William. Nay, by the splendor of 

God, no guest of mine. 

He came not to see me, had past me 

by 
To hunt and hawk elsewhere, save for 

the fate 
Which himted him when that 

.Saxon blast, 
And bolts of thunder niouldei 
high heaven 






1' 




XTI 1 -U-^ y 1 f-U" 


> 




- ■ scENt. ii. Harold. 303 


/I 


To serve the Norman purpose, drave 


Large lordship there of lands and 




- ■ and crack'd 


territory. 


)L 






His boat on Ponthieu beach; where 


Mala. I knew thy purpose; he 


itr 






cAa our friend Guy 


and Wulfnoth never Oj 






Had wrung his ransom from him liy 


Have met, e.xcept in public; shall 






the rack, 


thev meet 






}lut that I Slept between and pur- 


In private'.' I have often talk'd with 






chased him, 


Wulfnoth, 






Translatinc; his captivity from Guy 
To mine own hearth at Bayeux, where 


And stuffVl the boy with fears that 






these may act 






he sits 


On Harold when thev meet. 






Mv ransom'd prisoner. 


William. Then let them meet ! 






'Malct. Well, if not with gold. 


Malct. I can but love this noble, 






With golden deeds and iron strokes 


honest Harold. 






that brought 


William. Love him I why not.? 






Thy war with Brittany to a goodlier 


thine is a loving office. 






close 


I have commission'd thee to save the 






Than else had been, he paid his ran- 


man : 






som back. 


Help the good ship, showing the 






William. .So that henceforth they 


sunken rock. 






are not like to league 


Or he is wreckt for ever. 






With Harold against me. 








MaUt. A marvel, how 
He from the liquid sands of Coesnon 


Enter WlLI.IAM RUFUS. 






H.nled thy shore-swallow'd, armor'd 


William Jill/us. Faiher. 






Normans up 


William. Well. hov. 






To fight for thee again ! 


William Rufnx. The\ have taken 






Williiim. Perchance against 


away the tov thou gavest me. 






Their saver, save thou save him from 


The Norm'an knight. 






himself. 


William. Why, boy? 






Malet. But T should let him home 


William Riifiis. Because I broke 






again, mv lord. 


The horse's leg— it was mine own to 






William. Simple ! let fly the bird 


break ; 






within the hand, 


I like to have my toys, and break them 






To catch the bird again within the 


too. 






bush 1 


William. W'ell, thou shalt have 






No. 


another Norman knight ! 






Smooth thou my way, before he clash 


William Riifns. And may I break 






with me ; 


his legs ? 






I want his voice in England for the 


William. Yea,— get thee gone ! 






crown. 


William Riifus. I'll tell them I 






I want thy voice with him to bring 


have had my way with thee. 






him round; 


[Exit. 






And being brave he must be sul.itlv 


Malet. I never knew thee check 






cow'd. 


thy will for ought 






And beine: truthful wrought upon to 


Save for the prattling of thy little 






swear 


ones. 






«Y* Vows that he dare not break. Enc- 


William. Who shall be kings of ffY' 






1 land our own 


England. I am heir 






Thro' Harold's help, he shall be my 


Of England by the promise of her 






dear friend 


king. 






As well as thine, and thou thvself 


Malet. But there the great Assem- 
bly choose their king, 






Shalt have 




i \ 1 £y 




1 




The choice of England is the voice of 

England. 
Willuim. I will be king of England 

bv the laws, 
The choice, and voice of England. 
M.det. Can that be.' 

William. The voice of any people 

is the sword 
That guards them, or the sword that 

beats them down. 
Here comes the would-be what I will 

be . . . kinglike . . . 
Tho' scarce at ease ; for, save our 

meshes break. 
More kinglike he than like to prove a 

king. 

(Elder Harold, miisimr, -anth his eves 

on the groumi.) 
He sees me not — and yet he dreams 

of me. 
FZarl, wilt thou fly my falcons this fair 

day >. 
They are of the best, strong-wing'd 
against the wind. 
Harold (looking up suddenly, having 
eaught but the last word). 
Which way does it blow ? 

ing for England, 



Willio 

Not 
The 



ha? 



The 



.u has 
here 



learnt thy 



;ids so cross and jostle among 

these towers. 
Harold. Count of the Normans, 

thou hast ransom'd us, 
Maintain'd, and entertain'd us roy- 
ally! 
PHlliam. And thou for us hast 

fought as loyally, 
Which binds us friendship-fast for 

ever ! 
Harold. Good ! 

But lest we turn the scale of courtesy 
By too much pressure on it, I would 

fain, 
Since thou hast promised Wulfnoth 

home with us. 
Be home again with Wulfnoth. 

William. Stay — as yet 

Thou hast but seen how ' Norman 

hands can strike, 





But walk'd our ^ 
touch'd or i 
The splendors of our Court. 

Harold. I am in no mood : 

I should be as the shadow of a cloud 
Crossing your light. 

ll'illiam. Nay, rest a week or two, 
And we will fill thee full of Norman 



back 



ong thine 



And send the 

island m: 
With laughter. 

Harold. Count, I thank thee, but 

had rather 
Breathe the free wind from off our 

.Sa.xon downs, 
The' charged with all the wet of all 

the west. 
William. Why if thou wilt, so let 

it be — thou shalt. 
That were a graceless hospitality 
To chain the free guest to the ban- 
quet-board ; 
To-morrow we will ride with thee to 

Harfleur, 
And see thee shipt, and prav in thy 

behalf 
For happier homeward winds than 

that which crack'd 
Thy bark at Ponthieu, — yet to us, in 

faith, 
A happy one — whereby we came to 

know 
Thy valor and thy \alue, noble 

earl. 
Ay, and |)erchance a happy one for 

thee. 
Provided — I will go with thee to-mor- 
row — 
Nay — but there be conditions, easy 

ones. 
So thou, fair friend, will take them 

easily. 



Enter Page. 




Page My lord, there is a i^ost 


from over seas T 


With news for thee. [E.x-il Pa<;e. 




Wilham. Come, Malet. let i;s 




hear ! 




[Exeuut Count William and 




Malet. 


1 




Harold. Conditions? What con- 
pay him back 
[lis ransom? 'easy' — that were easy 

— nay — 
No money-lover he ! What said the 

King ? 
' I pray you do not go to Normandy.' 
And fate hath blown me hither, bound 

me too 
With bitter obligation to the Count — 
Have I not fought it out ? What did 

he mean ? 
There lodged a gleaming grininess in 

his eyes, 
Gave his shorn smile the lie. The 

walls oppress me. 
And von huge keep that hinders half 

' the heaven. 
Free air ! free field ! 

\_Mmies to f;o out. A Man-at-arms 
follows hi VI. 
Harold (to the Man-at-arms). I 
need thee not. Why dost thou 

Maii-al-a> ins. I have the Count's 

commands to follow thee. 
Harold. What then ? Am I in 

danger in this court ? 
Maii-at-arms. I cannot tell. I 

have the Count's commands. 
Harold. Stand out of earshot then, 
and keep me still 
In eveshot. 

M'an-at-urms. Yea, lord Harold. 

[ Withdr.nos. 

Harold. And arm'd men 

Ever keep watch beside my chamber 

door. 
And if I walk within the lonely wood, 
There is an arm'd man ever glides be- 
hind I 



(Enter Malet.) 
Why am I follow'd, haunted, harass'd, 

watch'd ? 
See yonder ! 

[Pointing to the Man-at-arms. 
.Malet. 'Tis the good Count's care 
for thee ! 
The Normans love thee not, nor thou 

the Normans, 
Or — so they deem. 





J/arold. But wherefore is the wind. 
Which way soever the vane-: 



Not ever fair for England ? W'hy but 

He said (thou heardst him) that I 

must not hence 
Save on conditions. 

Malet. So in truth he said. 

Harold. Malet, thy mother was an 
Englishwoman ; 
There somewhere beats an English 
pulse in thee ! 
Malet. Well— for my mother's 
sake I love your England, 
But for my father I love Normandy. 
Harold. Speak for thy mother's 

sake, and tell me true. 
Malet. Then for my Mother's sake, 
and England's sake 
That suffers in the daily want of thee. 
Obey the Count's conditions, my good 
friend. 
Harold. How, Malet, if they be 

not honorable ! 
Afalet. Seem to obey them. 
Harold. Better die than lie ! 

Malet. Choose therefore whether 
thou wilt have thy conscience 
White as a maiden's hand, or whether 

England 
Be shattered into fragments. 

Harold. News from England? 

Malet. Morcar and Edwin have 
stirr'd up the Thanes 
Against thy brother Tostig's govern- 
ance; 
And all the North of Humber is one 
storm. 
Harold. I should be there, Malet, 

I should be there ! 
Malet. And Tostig in his own hall 
on suspicion 
Hath massacred the Thane that was 

his guest. 
Camel, the son of Orm i and there be 

more 
As villainously slain. 

Harold. The wolf ! the beast ! 

Ill news for guests, ha^ Malet ! 



More f 
What do the 





Millet. They say, his wife was 

knowing and abetting. 
H.u-olJ. They say, his wife !— To 

nianv and have no husband 
Makes the' wife fool. My God, I 

should be there. 
I'll hack my way to the sea. 

MiiL-t. Thou canst not, Harold ; 
Our Duke is all between thee and the 

sea. 
Our Duke is all about thee like a God ; 
All passes Ijlock'd. Obey him, speak 

him fair. 
For he is onlv debonair to those 
That follow where he leads, but stark 

as death 
To those that cross him. — Look thou, 

here is Wulfnoth ! 
I leave thee to thy talk with him 

How wan, poor lad ! how sick and 
sad for home ! {Exit Malet. 
Harold (mutteritig). Go not to 
Normandy — go not to Nor- 
mandy ! 

{Enter WuLFNOTH.) 
Poor brother! still a hostage ! 

VViilfiioth. Yea, and I 

Shall see the dewy kiss of dawn no 

more 
Make blush the maiden-white of our 

tall cliffs. 
Nor mark the sea-bird rouse himself 

Above the windy ripple, and fill the 

sky 
With free sea-laughter — never — save 

indeed 
Thou canst make yield this iron- 

mooded Duke 
To let me go. 

Harold. Why, brother, so he will; 
But on conditions. Canst thou guess 
at them i" 
Wulfnoth. Draw nearer, — I was in 

the corridor, 

saw him coming with his brother 

Odo 

The Bayeux bishop, and I hid myself. 

Harold. They did thee wrong who 

made thee hostage ; thou 




Wast ever fearful. 
Wulfnoth. 

heard him— 
'This Harold is 

blood, 
Can have no right 



' Thii 




Odo 1 

■ is the right, for 
might ; he is here, 
And yonder is thy keep.' 

Harold. No, Wulfnoth, no. 

Wulfnoth. And William laugh'd 
and swore that might was 



^ht, 



pool 



•Id of 
it go along 
find a way,' 



Far as he knew 
ours — 

' Marry, the Saints m 
with us. 

And, brother, we will 
said he — 

Yea, yea, he would be king of Eng- 
land. 
Harold. Never ! 

Wulfnoth. Yea, but thou must not 

this way answer /«>«. 
Harold. Is it not better still to 

speak the truth .' 
Wulfnoth. Not here, or thou wilt 
never hence nor I : 

For in the racing toward this golden 
goal 

He turns not right or left, but tram- 
ples fiat 

Whatever thwarts him ; hast thou 
never heard 

His savagery at Alen9on, — the town 

Hung out raw hides along their walls, 
and cried 

' Work for the tanner.' 

Harold. That had aiiger'd nu 

Had I been William. 

Wulfnoth. Nay, but he had pris- 
oners. 

He tore their eyes out, sliced their 
hands away, 

And flung them streaming o'er the 
battlements 

Upon the heads of those who walk'd 
within— 

O speak him fair, Harold, for thine 
own sake. 
Harold. Your Welshman says, 
' The Truth against the World,' 





Much more the truth against mvself. 

Wulfuoth. Tliyself ? 

But fur my sake, oh brother! oh! for 
my sake ! 
/{jyolit Poor Wulfuoth! do they 

not entreat thee well ? 
Wulfuoth. I see the blackness of 

revel, and be- 

of their ban- 



Harold. Too fearful still ! 

Wulfuoth. Oh no, no — speak 

him fair ! 
Call it to temporise ; and not to lie ; 
Harold, I do not counsel thee to lie. 
The man that hath to foil a murder- 

Mav, surely, play with words. 

Harold. Words are the man. 

Not ev'n for thy sake, brother, would 

I lie. 

Wulfuoth. Then for thine Edith .' 

Harold. There thou prick'st 

me deep. 
Wulfnoth. And for our Mother 

England .' 
Harold. Deeper still. 

Wulfmth. And deeper still the 
deep down oubliette, 
Down thirty feet below the smiling 

day — 
In blackness — dogs' food thrown 

upon thy head. 
And over thee the suns arise and set, 
And the lark sings, the sweet stars 

come and go. 
And men are at their markets, in their 

fields. 
And woo their loves and have forgot- 
ten thee; 
And thou art upright in thy living 

Where there is barely room to shift 

thy side. 
And all thine England hath forgotten 

thee ; 
And he our lazy-pious Norman King, 
With all his Normans round him 

once again, 





Counts his old beads, and hath for- 
gotten thee. 
Harold. Thou art of my blood, 
and so niethinks, my boy. 

Thy fears infect me beyond reason. 
Peace ! 
Wulfuoth. And then our fiery 
Tostig, while thy hands 

Are palsied here, if his Northum- 
brians rise 

And hurl him from them, — I have 
heard the Normans 

Count upon this confusion — may he 



A leagu 



to bring 



with Willi: 
1 back ? 
Harold. That lies within the 

shadow of the chance. 
Wulfnoth. And like a river in 
flood thro' a burst dam 
Descends the ruthless Norman— our 

good King 
Kneels mumbling some old bone — our 

helpless folk 
Are wash'd away, wailing, in their 
own blood — 
'Harold. Wailing! not warring.' 
Boy, thon hast forgotten 
That thou art English. 

Wulfuoth. Then our modest 
women — 
I know the Norman license — thine 
own Edith— 
Harold. No more! I will not hear 

thee — William comes. 
Wulfnoth. I dare not well be seen 
in talk with thee. 
Make thou not mention that I spake 
with thee. 
\Mm.h-s away to the hack of the stage. 



Euter William, Malet, awrf Officer. 

Officer. We have the man that 
rail'd against thy birth. 

William. 'Tear out his tongue. 

Officer. He shall not rail again. 

He said that he should see confusion 

fall 
On thee and on thine ho 

William. Tear out his eyes. 

And plunge him into prison. 

Officer. 




: shall be done. 




Harold. 



d I should 
id let him 
go ? To 



lExit Officer. 

Wilhatn. Look not amazed, fair 

earl! Better leave undone 

Than do by halves — tongueless and 

eyeless, prison'd— 

Hnrold._ Better methinks have 

slain the man at once ! 
WUliam.^ We have respect for 
man's immortal soul, 
We seldom take man's life, except in 

It frights the traitor more to maim 
and blind. 
Harold. In mine own 1 
have scorn'd the n 
Or lash'd his rascal back, 
go. 
William. And let h 
slander thee again 
Yet in thine own land in thv father's 

day 
They blinded my young kinsman, Al- 
fred—ay, 
Some said it was thv father's deed. 
Harold. They lied. 

Wilham. But thou and he— whom 
at thy word, for thou 
Art known a speaker of the truth, I 

free 
From this foul charge — 

Harold. Nay, nay, he freed himself 
By oath and compurgation from the 

charge. 
The king, the lords, the people clear'd 
him of it. 
William. But thou and he drove 
our good Normans out 
From England, and this rankles in us 



rdly scaped 



yet. 
Archbishop Robert 
with life. 
Harold. Archbishop Robert ! Rob- 
ert the Archbishop ! 
Robert of Jumieges, he that — 
Ma^et. Quiet! quiet! 

Harold. Count ! if there sat within 
the Norman chair 
A ruler all for England— one who 

All ofifices, all bishopricks with Eng- 



Id not move from Dov 
the Humber 




Saving thro' Norman bishopricks— I 



say 




1 e would applaud that Norman who 

should drive 
The stranger to the fiends ! 

William. Why, that is reason ! 

Warrior thou art, and mighty wise 

withal ! 
Ay, ay, but many among our Norman 

lords 
Hate thee for this, and press upon 

me — saying 
God and the sea have given thee to 

our hands — 
To plunge thee into life-long prison 

Vet I hold out against them, as I 

may, 
\ ea — would hold out, yea, tho' they 

should revolt — 
For thou hast done the battle in my 

cause ; 
I am thy fastest friend in Norman- 
dy. 
Harold. I am doubly bound to 

thee ... if this be so. 
William. And I would bind thee 
more, and would myself 
Be bounden to thee more. 

Harold. Then let me hence 

With Wulfnoth to King Edward. 

William. So we will. 

We hear he hath not long to live. 
Harold. It may be. 

William. Why then the heir of 

England, who is he .> 
Harold. The Atheling is nearest 

to the throne. 
William. But sickly, slight, half- 
witted and a child. 
Will England have him king.' 

Harold. It may be, no. 

William. And hath King Edward 

not pronounced his heir .' 
Harold. Not that I know. 
William. When he was here in 

Normandy, 
He loved us and we him, because we 

found him 
A Norman of the Normans. 
Harold. So did we. 

Wiilii. 





And grateful to the hand tha 

him, 
He promised that if ever 

king 
In England, he would give 

voice 
To me as hi 



;;■ 


■,/„■/;/, 


Tho 


l<nowe 


St I 


am his 




tiillsiii 










And 


hat m> 
fred ? 


wife 


descen 


Is fr 


3m Al- 


Ha 


rold. 








Ay 


Wnitam. 


Who hath a 


hette 


r claim 




then t 


Tthe 


crown 






So tl 


atye w 


ill nc 




1 the 


Athel- 



ing .' 
Harold. None that 1 know ... if 

that but hung upon 
King Edward's will. 

IVilliam. Wilt M«/ uphold my 

claim? 
Malet [aside la Harold). IJe careful 

I if tiiine answer, my good friend. 
]V:,!j,!oth (,ij;(/f /tf Harold). Oh! 

Harold, for my sake and for 

thine own ! 
Harold. Ay . . . if the king have 

not revoked his promise. 
William. But hath he done it then '> 
Harold. Not that I know. 

IViUiavt. Good, good, and thou 

wilt help me to the crown .' 
Harold. Ay ... if the Witan will 

William. Thou art the mightiest 
voice in England, man, 
Thy voice will lead the Witan— shall 
1 have it .' 
Wuljnoth [aside to Harold). Oh! 
Harold, if thou love thine 
Edith, ay. 
Harold. Ay, if — 
Malet (aside to Harold). Thine 
' ifs' will sear thine eyes out — 
av. 
William. I ask thee, wilt thou 
help me to the crown .' 
.■\nd I will make thee my great Earl 

of Earls, 
Foremost in England and in Nor- 




rily k 




Thou shalt be ' 
name — 

For I shall most sojourn in Nor- 
mandy ; 

And thou be my vice-king in Eng- 
land. Speak. 
Wiilfiiotk (aside to Harold). Ay, 
brother — for the sake of Eng- 

Harold. jMv'lord— 

Malet (aside to Harold). Take 

heed now. 
Harold. Ay. 

William. I am content, 

For thou art truthful, and thy word 

thy bond. 



th the 



to 



Harfleur. [E.vit William. 

Malet. Harold, I am thy friend, 
one life with thee, 

And even as I should bless thee sav- 
ing mine, 

I thank thee now for having saved 
thyself. [Exit Malet. 

Harold. For having lost mvseif to 
save myself, 

Said ' ay ' when I meant ' no,' lied like 
a lad 

That dreads the pendent scourge, said 



for 
Ay! No! — he hath not bound me by 

an oath — 
Is ' ay ' an oath ? is ' ay ' strong as an 

oath ? 
Or is it the same sin to break my 

word 
As break mine oath ? He call'd my 

word my bond ! 
He is a liar who knows I am a liar. 
And makes believe that he believes 

my word — 
The crime be on his head — not 

[Suddenly doors are Jliijig open, dis- 
covering ill an inner hall 
Count William in liis state 
robes, seated upon his throne, 
between two Bishops, Odo of 
Bayeux being one: in the 
centre of the hall an ark co^'ered 
with cloth of gold ; and on 
either side of it the Norman 





Harold. 



Jailor before \yilliam's 



Wmiam (to Jailor). Knave, hast 
thou let thy prisoner scape ? 
Jailor. Sir Count, 

He had but one foot, he must have 

hopt away, 
Vea, some familiar spirit must have 
help'd him. 
William. Woe knave to thy fa- 
miliar and to thee! 
Give me thy keys. {They fall clas/i- 



Nay let them 
wait my 



Stand there and 



[The ]Mor slonJs aside. 

miliam {to Harold). Hast thou 

such trustless jailors in thv 

North ,' ^ 

HaroUl. We have few prisoners in 

mine earldom there. 

So less chance for false keepers. 

William. We have heard 

Of thy just, mild, and equal gover- 
nance ; 
Honor to thee ! thou art perfect in all 

honor! 
Thy naked word thy bond ! confirm it 

Before our gather'd Norman baron- 

For they will not believe thee— as I 

believe. 
{Descends from his throne and 

stands by the ark. 
Let all men here bear witness of our 

bond ! {Beckons to Harold, 

who advances. 



Enter Malet behind him. 

Lay thou thy hand upon this golden 

pall! 
Behold the jewel of St. Pancratius 
Woven into the gold. Swear thou on 

this ! 
Harold. What should I swear.' 

Why should I swear on 

this .> 
lV,lliam. [savagely). Swear thou 

to help me to the crown of 

England. 





Malet {whispering Harold). My 
friend, thou hast gone too far 
to palter now. 
Wulfnoth [whispering Harold). 
Swear thou to-day, to-morrow 
is thine own. 
Harold. I swear to help thee to 
the crown of England . . . 
According as King Edward promises. 
William. Thou must swear abso- 
lutely, noble Earl. 
Malet [whispering). Delay is death 

to thee, ruin to England. 
Wulfnoth [whispering). Swear, 
dearest brother, I beseech thee, 
swear ! 
Harold [putting his hand on the 
jewel). I swear to help thee to 
the crown of England. 
William. Thanks, truthful Earl; I 
did not doubt thy word. 
But that my barons might believe thy 

word, 
And that the Holy Saints of Nor- 
mandy 
When thou art home in England, with 

thine own. 
Might strengthen thee in keeping of 

thy word, 
I made thee swear. — Show him by 
whom he hath sworn. 
{The two Bishops advance, and 
raise the cloth of gold. The bodies 
and bones of Saints are seen 
lying in the ark. 
The holy bones of all the Canon- 
ized 
From all the holiest shrines in 
Normandy ! 
Harold. Horrible! {Thev let the 

cloth fall a^ain. 
William. Ay, for thou hast sworn 
an oath 
Which, if not kept, would make the 

hard earth rive 
To the very Devil's horns, the bright 

sky cleave 
To the very feet of God, and send her 

Of injured Saints to scatter sparks of 

plague 
Thro' all your cities, blast your infants, 

dash 





Harold. 



The torch of war among your stand- 
ing corn, 

Dabble your hearths with your own 
blood.— Enough ! 

Thou wilt not break it ! I, the 
Count — the King — 

Thy friend — am grateful for thine 
honest oath, 

Not coming fiercely like a conqueror, 

But softly as a bridegroom to his own. 
For I shall rule according to your 



And make you 
To music and 



ing Earldoms 



in order — Angle, Jute, 
Norman, help to build a 



Out-towering hers of France • . - 

wind is fair 
For England now . . . To-night 



ill be 



merry. 



To-morrow will I'ride with thee 

Harfleur. 
\_ExeuHt William and all the 

A'orman barons, etc. 
Harold. To-night we will be merry 

— and to-morrow — 
Juggler and bastard — bastard — he 

hates that most — 
William the tanner's bastard ! 

Would he heard me ! 
O God, that I were in some wide, 

waste field 
With nothing but my battle-axe and 

To spatter his brains 1 Why let earth 

rive, gulf in 
These cursed Normans — yea and mine 

own self. 
Cleave heaven, and send thy saints 

that I may say 
Ev'n to their faces, ' If ye side with 

William 
Ye are not noble.' How their pointed 

Glared at me! Am I Harold, 

Harold, son 
Of our great Godwin ? Lo ! I touch 

mine arms. 
My limbs — they are not mine — they 

are a liar's — 
m to be a liar — I am not bound — 





Stigand shall give me absolution for 

Did the chest move .' did it move .' I 

am utter craven I 
O Wulfnoth, Wulfnoth, brother, thou 

hast betray'd me ! 
Wulfnoth. Forgive me, brother, 

I will live here and die. 



Enter Page. 

Page. My lord ! the Duke awaits 

thee at the banquet. 
Harold. Where they eat dead 

men's flesh, and drink their 

blood. 
Page. My Lord — 
Harold. I know your Norman 

cookery is so spiced. 
It masks all this. 

Page. My lord I thou art white 

as death. 
Harold. With looking on the dead. 

Am I so white.' 
Thy Duke will seem the darker. 

Hence, I follow. \_Exet,nt. 



King Edward dying on a couch, and 
hy hi?n standing the QiiEEN, Har- 
old, Archbishop Stigand, 
GuRTH, Leofwin, Archbishop 
Aldred, Aldwyth, and Edith. 

Stigand. Sleeping or dying there? 

If this be death. 
Then our great Council wait to crown 

thee King- 
Come hither, I have a power; 

\To Harold. 
They call me near, for I am close to 

thee 
And England — I, old shrivell'd 

Stigand, I, 
Dry as an old wood-fungus on a dead 



I have a power ! 





ttle key about mv 

neck! 
There lies a treasure buried down in 

Ely : 
I£ e'er the Norman grow too hard for 

thee, 
Ask me for this at thv most need, son 

Harold, 
At thy most need — not sooner. 

Harold. So I will. 

Stigaml. Red gold— a hundred 

purses — yea, and more ! 
If thou canst make a wholesome use 

of these 
To chink against the Norman, I do 

believe 
Mv old crook'd spine would bud out 

two young wings 
To fly to heaven straight with. 

Harol.l. Thank thee, father ! 

Thou art English, Edward too is 

English now. 
He hath clean repented of his Nor- 

manism. 
Stigatid. Ay. as the libertine re- 
pents who cannot 
Make done undone, when thro' his 

dving sense 
Shrills ''lost thro' thee.' They have 

built their castles here; 
Our priories are Norman; the Nor- 
man adder 
Hath bitten us ; we are poison'd : our 

dear England 
Is demi-Norman. He I — . 

{Pointing to King Edward, sleeping. 
Harold. I would I were 

As holy and as passionless as he I 
That I might rest as calmly ! Look 

at him — 
The rosy face, and long down-silvering 

beard. 
The brows unwrinkled as a summer 

mere. — 
Stigatid. A summer mere with sud- 
den wreckful gusts 
From a side-gorge. Passionless ? 

How he flamed 
WhenTostig's anger'd earldom flung 



He fain had calcined all Northumbria 
To one black ash, but that thy patriot 
passion 





Siding with our great Coum 

Tostig, 
Out-passion'd his! Holy.' ay, ay. 

forsooth, 
A conscience for his own soul, not his 

realm ; 
A twilight conscience lighted thro' a 

chink ; 
Thine by the sun ; nay, by some sun 

to be, 
When all the world hath learnt to 

speak the truth, 
And lying were self-murder by that 

Which was the exception. 
Harold. That sun may God speed! 
Stigand. Come, Harold, shake the 

cloud off I 
Harold. Can 1, father? 

Our Tostig parted cursing me and 
England ; 
j Our sister hates us for his banish- 

1 He hath gone to kindle Norway 
I against England, 

.-\nd Wulfnoth is alone in Normandv. 
I For when I rode with William dow'n 
I to Harfleur, 

' Wulfnoth is sick,' he said ; ' he can- 
not follow ; ' 
Then with that friendlv-fiendly smile 

of his, 
' We have learnt to love him, let him 

a little longer 
Remain a hostage for the lovalty 
Of Godwin's house.' As' far as 

touches Wulfnoth 
I that so prized plain word and naked 

truth 
Have sinn'd against it — all in vain. 

Lfof'win. Good brother. 

By all the truths that ever priest hath 

preach'd, 
Of all the lies that ever men have 

lied, 
Thine is the pardonablest. 

Harold. May be so ! 

I think it so, I think I am a fool 
To think it can be otherwise than so. 
Sligand. Tut, tut, I have absolved 
thee : dost thou scnrn me. 
Because I had my Canterbury jiallium, 
From one whom they dispoped ? 





I have heard a saying of thy father 

Godwin, 
That, were a man of state nakedly 

true. 
Men would but take him for the 

Leof-win. Be men less delicate than 
the Devil himself? 
I thought that naked Truth would 

shame the Devil 
The Devil is so modest. 

Gurth. He never said it! 

Lcof-win. Be thou not stupid-hon- 
est, brother Gurth ! 
Haiold. Better to be a liar's dog, 
and hold 
My master honest, than believe that 

lying 
And ruling men are fatal twins that 

cannot 
Move one without the other. Edward 

wakes !— 
Dazed — he hath seen a vision. 

Ed-ivarJ. The green tree ! 

Then a great Angel past along the 

highest 
Crying 'the doom of England,' and at 



his grasp a 

he cleft 

ng trunk, and 

d then he dash'd 

nk with 



He stood beside me, 

sword 
Of lightnings, wherewitha 

the tree 
From off the bearing ti 

huri'd it from him 
Three fields away 

and drench'd, 
He dyed, he soak'd th. 

human blood. 
And brought the sunder'd tree agaii 

and set it 
Straight on the trunk, that thus ba] 

tized in blood 
Crew ever high and higher, bevon 

.^iid shot out sidelong boughs aero; 

the deep 
That dropt themselves, and rooted i 

far isles 
Beyond my seeing: and the gre; 

Angel ros 





atj 



And past again along the highest cry- 
ing 
' The doom of England ! ' — Tostig, 
raise my head ! 

\Falb back senseless. 
Harold {raising him). Let Harold 

serve for Tostig ! 
Queen. Harold served 

Tostig so ill, he cannot serve for 

Tostig ! 
Ay, raise his head, for thou hast laid 

The sickness of our saintly king, for 

whom 
My prayers go up as fast as my tears 

fall, 
I well believe, hath mainly drawn 

itself 
From lack of Tostig — thou hast ban- 

ish'd him. 
Harold. Nay — but the council, and 

the king himself, 
Queett. Thou hatest him, hatest 

him. 
Harold [coldly). Ay— Stigand, 

unriddle 
This vision, canst thou ? 

Stiga?id. Dotage ! 

Ediuard (starting tip). It is fin 

ish'd. 
I have built the Lord a house — the 

Lord hath dwelt 
In darkness. I have built the Lord 

a house — 
Palms, flowers, pon\egranates, golden 

cherubim 
With twenty-cubit wings from wall to 

I have built the Lord a house — sing, 
Asaph ! clash 

The cymbal, Heman ! blow the trum- 
pet, priest ! 

Fall, cloud, and fill the house— lo! 
my two pillars, 

Jachin and Boaz ! — 

{Seeing Harold ««</ Gurth. 
Harold, Gurth,— where am I .> 

Where is the charter of our West- 

Stigand. It lies beside thee, king, 

upon thy bed. 
Edward. Sign, sign at once — take, 

sign it, Stigand, AldreJ ! 





Sign it, my good 

and Leofwni, 
Sign it, mv queen ! 

All. ' We have sign'd it. 

Edward. It is finish'd ! 

The kingliest Abbey in all Christian 

lands, 
The lordliest, loftiest minster ever 



To Holy Peter in our English isle ! 
Let me be buried there, and all our 

kings, 
And all our just and wise and holy 

That shall be born hereafter. It is 

finish'd I 
Hast thou had absolution for thine 
oath.' [7}; Harold. 

Harold. Stigand hath given me 

absolution for it. 
Edward. Stigand is not canonical 
enough 
To save thee from the wrath of Nor- 
man Saints. 
Stigand. Norman enough ! Be 
there no Saints of England 
To help us from their brethren yon- 
der .' 
Edward. Prelate, 

The Saints are one, but those of Nor- 

nianland 

Are mightier than our own. Ask it 

of Aldred. [ To Harold. 

Aldred. It shall be granted him, 

my king ; for he 

Who vows a vow to strangle his own 

mother 
Is guiltier keeping this, than breaking 



Ed:oard. O fr 

overlive th^ 
.SV/-V///,/. Win' 



s I shall not 
1 the throne is 
bound by the 



For tho' we be i 
king's voice 
In making of a king, yet the king's 



Is much toward hii 

inherits .> 
Edgar the Atheling ? 

Edward No, no, but Ha 




laking. Who 



Can rule all England. Vet the curs 

is on him 
For swearing falsely by those ble 

bones ; 
He did not mean to keep his vow. 

Harold. Not mean 

To make our England Norman. 

Edward. There spake Godwin, 

Who hated all the. Normans; but 

their Saints 
Have heard thee, Harold. 

Edith. Oh ! my lord, my king ! 

He knew not whom he sware by. 

Edward. Yea, I know 

He knew not, but those heavenly ears 

have heard. 
Their curse is on him;. wilt thou 

bring another, 
Edith, upon his head ? 

Edith. No, no, not I, 

Edward Why then, thou must 

not wed him. 
Harold. Wherefore, wherefore? 

Edward. O son, when thou didst 
tell me of thine oath, 
I sorrow'd for my random promise 

given 
To yon fo.\-lion. I did not dream 

then 
I should be king. — My son, the .Saints 

are virgins ; 
They love the white rose of virgin- 



lily blowing in her 
and I 



The cold, 

cell: 
I have been myself a 

sware 
To consecrate my virgin here to 

heaven — 
The silent, cloister'd, solitary life. 
A life of life-long prayer against the 

curse 
That lies on thee and England. 

Harold No, no, no. 

Edward. Treble denial of the 

tongue of flesh. 
Like Peter's when he fell, and thou 

wilt have 
To wail for it like Peter. O my son ! 
Are all oaths to be broken then, all 





is one who loves thee : and 
■e, 

who, so she be service- 
al)le 
In all obedience, as mine own hath 

been : 
God bless thee, wedded daughter. 
[Laying his hand on the Queen's head. 
Qiiecit. Bless thou too 

That brother whom I love beyond the 

rest, 
My banish'd Tostig. 
Edward. All the sweet Saints 

bless him ! 
Spare and forbear him, Harold, if he 

And let him pass unscathed ; he loves 

me, Harold ! 
Be kindly to the Normans left among 

us. 
Who follow'd me for love ! and dear 

son, swear 
When thou art king, to see my solemn 

vow 
Accomplish'd. 

Harold. Nay, dear lord, for I have 
sworn 
Not to swear falselv twice. 

Edward. Thou wilt not swear .' 

Harold. I cannot. 
Edward. Then on thee remains 
the curse, 
Harold, if thou embrace her : and on 

thee, 
Edith, if thou abide it, — 

[ The King swoons ; Edith /alls 
and kneels by the coueh. 
Stigand. ' He hath swoon'd ! 

Death ? . . . no, as yet a breath. 

Harold. Look up ! look up ! 

Edith ! 

Aldred. Confuse her not ; she hath 
begun 
Her life-long prayer for thee. 

.-lld'oytl,. O noble Harold, 

I w. mki thou couldst have sworn. 
//an'/d. For thine own pleasure? 
AlJwylh. No, but to please our 
dying king, and those 
Who make thy good their own — all 
England, Earl. 
Aldred. I would thou couldst have 
sworn. Our holy king 





Hath given his virgin lamb to Holy 

Church 
To save thee from the curse. 

Harold. Alas ! poor man, 

His promise brought it on me. 

Aldred. O good son ! 

That knowledge made him all the 

carefuUer 
To find a means whereby the curse 

might glance 
From thee and England. 

Harold. Father, we so loved — 

Aldred. The more the love, the 

mightier is the prayer ; 

The more the love, the more acceptable 

The sacrifice of both your loves to 

heaven. 
No sacrifice to heaven, no help from 

heaven ; 
That runs thro' all the faiths of all the 

world. 
And sacrifice there must be, for the 

king 
Is holy, and hath talk'd with God, and 

seen 
A shadowing horror ; there are signs 
in heaven — 
Harold. Your comet came and 

went. 
Aldred. And signs on earth ! 

Knowest thou Senlac hill } 

Harold. I know all Sussex ; 

A good entrenchment for a perilous 

hour ! 

Aldred. Pray God that come not 

suddenly ! There is one 

Who passing by that hill three nights 

He shook so that he scarce could out 

with it- 
Heard, heard — 

Harold. The wind in his hair .? 
AI,U;d. Agh.iKtlyhom 

Blowing continually, and faint battle- 
hymns. 
And cries, and clashes, and the groans 

-And dreadful shadows strove upon the 

hill. 
And dreadful lights crept up from 

the marsh — 
Corpse-candles gliding over name 

graves— 





Harold. AtSeiilac? 
AlJreJ. SenUc. 

Edward ['oakii,,^). Senlac ! San- 
guelac, 
The Lake of Blood! 

Sti^^aiid. This liglvtniiig before 
death 
Plays on the word, — and Nornianizes 
too ! 
Harold. Hush, father, hush ! 
Edward. Thou uucaiionical fool, 
Wilt tlwu plav with the thunder? 

North and South 
Thunder together, showers of blood 

are blown 
Kefore a never ending blast, and hiss 
Against the blaze they cannot quench 

— a lake, 
A sea of blood — we are drown'd in 

blood — for God 
Has fill'd the quiver, and Death has 

drawn the bow — 
Sanguelac ! Sanguelac ! the arrow ! 
the arrow I [Dies. 

S!i,^a„d. It is the arrow of d^ath 



Lc 



:il wa 



SCENE II.— In the G.vrde.v. The 
King's House ne.\r London. 

Edith. Crown'd, crown'd and lost, 
crown'd King — and lost to me ! 
(Siuging.) 
Two young lovers in whiter weather. 

None to guide them, 

WalU'd at night on the misty heather ; 

Xight, as black as a raven's feather; 

lioth were lost and found together. 

None beside them. 



rhat 




the burthen of it— lost and 



osl, the light of day. 
lover answers lovingly 



' I am beside thee.' 
Lost, lost, we have lost the way. 

' Love, I will guide thee.' 
Whither, O whither.' into th 




Where we two may be lo 


St to- 


And lost for ever 


' 'Oh! 


lever. 


oh ! never. 






Tho' we be lost a 


id be fou 


id to- 


gether.' 






Some think they loved 


within the 


pale 


forbidden 






By Holy Church: but 


who shall 


say' 


the truth 






Was lost in that fierce North, where 


they were lost. 






Where all good things 


are lost, where 


Toltiglost 






The good hearts of his 


people. 


It l.s 


Harold ! 







all me not King, but 

hou ; 
Thine, _ ._, 

been weepm 



[EiiUr Harold.) 

Harold the King ! 
Harold. 

Harold. 
Edith. Nay, thou art King ! 
Harold. Thine, thine, or King 

or churl ! 
My girl, thou h 

turn not thou 
Thy face away, but rather let me 

be 
King of the moment to thee, and 

command 
That kiss my due when subject, 

which will make 
My kingship kinglier to me than tii 

reign 
King of the world without it. 

Edith. Ask me not. 

Lest I should yield it, and the second 



Descend 



thli 



head. 



thou 



pon 
be only 
King of the moment over England. 

Harold. Edith, 

The' somewhat less a king to mv true 

self 
Than ere they crown'd me one, for 1 
have lost 





SATYR, A SATYR, SEE, FOL.LOWS."~Page I52. 




Somewhat of upright stature thro' ; 

mine oath, 
Vet thee I would uot lose, and sell 

not thou 
Our living passion for a dead man's 

Stigand believed he knew not what he 

spake. 
Oh God ! I cannot help it, but at 

times I 

They seem to me too narrow, all the t 

faiths I 

Of this grown world of ours, whose j 

baby eye ^ i 

Saw theni sufficient. Fool and wise, I 




Thii 



)rn it. But a little 
he shadow of the 
more ! for better. 



priest ; 
Heaven yield us 

Wbden, all 
Our cancell'd warrior-gods, our grim 

Walhalla, 
Eternal war, than that the Saints at 



tof ourHolii 



: one should 
-bet- 



The Holi 

be 
This William's fellow-trick; 

ter die 
Than credit this, for death is death, 

or else 
Lifts us beyond the lie. Kiss me — 

thou art not 
A holy sister yet, my girl, to fear I 

There might be more than brother in 

And more than sister in thine own. 
Edith. I dare not. 

Harold. Scared by the church — 
' Love for a whole life long ' 
When was that sung ? 
Edith. Here to the nightingales. 
Harold. Their anthems of no 
church, how sweet thev are ! 
Nor kingly, priest, nor priestly king to 



Their billings ere they nest. 

Edith. They are but of spring, 

They fly the winter change — not so 

with us — 
No wings to come and go. 

Harold. But wing'd souls flying 



Beyond all change and in thi 

To settle on the Truth. 

Editli. They 

They change their mates. 

Harold. Do they .■■ I did not know 

it. 
Edith. They say thou art to wed 

the Lady Aldwyth. 
Harold. They say, they say. 
Edith. If this be politic. 

And well for thee and England— and 

for her — 
Care not for me who love thee. 

Gurth [callins:). Harold, Harold ! 

Harold. The voice of Gurth! 

(Enter GuRTH.) Good even, 

mv good brother ! 

Gurth. Good even, gentle Edith. 

Edith. Good even, Gurth. 

Gurth. Ill news hath come! Our 

hapless brother, Tostig — 

He, and the giant King of Norway, 

Harold 
Hardrada — Scotland, Ireland, Iceland, 

Orkney, 
Are landed North of Humber, and in 

afield 
So packt with carnage that the dykes 

and brooks 
Were bridged and damm'dwith dead, 

have overthrown 
Morcar and Edwin. 

Harold. Well then, we must 

fighl 



bio 



the wind ? 



;ainst St. Valery 



rse news : this 
Rome, 
falsely by his 




Gurth. A 

And William. 
Haiold. Well th^ 

North, 
Gurth. Ay, but ' 

William sent 
Swearing thou 

Saints : 
The Pope and that Archdeacon Hilde- 

brand 
His master, heard him, and have sent 

him back 
A holy gonfanon, and a blessed hair 
Of Peter, and all France, all 

gundy, 
Poitou, all Christendom is raised 

again.st thee ; 





He nath cursed thee, and all those 

who fight for thee, 
And given thy realm of England to 
the bastard. 
Harold. Ha! ha! 
EdUh. Oh I laugh not ! . . . Strange 
and ghastly in the gloom 
And shadowing of this double thun- 
dercloud 
That lours on England — laugliter ! 

Harold. No, not strange ! 

This was old human laughter in old 

Rome 
Before a Pope was born, when that 

which reign'd 
Caird itself God. — A kindly rendering 

Of ' Render unto C^sar.' The 

Good Shepherd ! 
Take this, and render that. 

Gurth. They have taken York. 

Harold. The Lord was God and 
came as man — the Pope 
Is man and comes as God. — York 
taken .' 
Gurth. Yea, 

Tostig hath taken York ! 

Harold To York then. Edith, 
Hadst thou been braver, I had better 

braved 
All— but I love thee and thou me— 

and that 
Remains beyond all chances and all 

churches, 
And that thou knowest. 

Edit/i. Ay, but take back thy ring. 
It burns my hand — a curse to thee 

and me. 
I dare not wear it. 

[Proffers Harold tlu ring, whUlt 

he lakes. 

Harold Butld.are. God with thee! 

\Exetint Harold and Gurth. 

Ed:lh. The King hath cursed him, 

if he marry me ; 

'I'lie ['ope hath cursed him, marry me 

Gud help me ! I know nothing — can 



Harold — pray, pray, pray — no 
hel]i but ])rayer, 
A breath that fleets bevond this iron 




SCENE 




NORTHUMKRIA 



Archbishop Aldred, Morcar, 
Edwin, and Forces. Enter Har- 
old. The standard of the golden 
Dragon of Wessex preceding him. 

Harold. What ! are thy people 
sullen from defeat ? 

dragon flies beyond the 



Hu 



iber, 






having been 



Let not our greai 
Believe us sullen — only shamed 

quick 
Before the king — a 

bruised 
By Harold, king of Norway ; but our 

help 
Is Harold, king of England. Pardon 

us, thou ! 
Our silence is our reverence for the 
king ! 
Harold. Earl of the Mercians ! if 
the truth be gall, 
Cram me not thou with honey, when 

our good hive 
Needs everv sting to save it. 

l^oices. ' Aldwyth, Aldwyth! 

Harold. Whv cry thy people on 

thy sister's name ? 
Morcar. She hath won upon our 
people thro' her beauty. 
And pleasantness among them. 

Voices. ■ Aldwyth! Aldwyth! 

Harold. They shout as they would 

have her for a queen. 
Morcar. She hath followed with 

our host, and suffer'd all. 
Harold. What would ye, men .? 
Voice. Our old Northumbrian 

crown, 
And kings of our own choosing. 

Harold. Your old crown 

Were little help without our Saxo 

carles 
Against Hardrada. 

Voice. Little ! we are Danes 

Who conquer'd what we walk on, oui 
own field. 





/liro!,/. They have been pluttiiig 

here! [Asu/c. 

/•,v<v. He calls us little! 

Harold. The kingdoms of this 

world began with little, 

A hill, a fort, a city — that rsach'd a 

hand 
Down to the field beneath it, ' Be 

thou mine,' 
Then to the next, ' Thou also ! ' If 

the field 
Cried out ' I am mine own ; ' another 

hill 
Or fort, or city, took it, and the first 
Fell, and the next became an Empire. 
Vou-e. Yet 

Thou art but a West Saxon : we are 
Danes ! 
Harold. My mother is a Dane, 
and I am English ; 
There is a pleasant fable in old books. 
Ye take a stick, and break it ; bind a 

score 
All in one faggot, snap it over knee, 

Voice. ' Hear King Harold ! he 

says true ! 
Harold. Would ye be Norsemen ? 
Wnces. No!' 

Harold. Or Norman ? 

Voices. No! 

Harold. Snap not the faggot-band 

then. 
Voice. That is true ! 

Voice. Ay, but thou art not kingly, 
only grandson 
To Wujfnoth, a poor cow-herd. 

Harold. This old Wulfnoth 

Would take me on his knees and tell 

me tales 
Of Alfred and of Athelstan the Great 
Who drove you Danes; and vet he 

held that Dane, 
Jute, Angle, Saxon, were or should be 

all 
One England, for this cow-herd, like 

my father. 
Who shook the Norman scoundrels 

oft the throne. 
Had in him kingly thoughts — a king 

Not made but born, like the great 
king of all. 





A light among the oxen. 

Voice. That i 

Voice. Ay, and I love him now, for 
mine own father 
Was great, and cobbled. 

Voice. Thou art Tostig's brother, 
Who wastes the land. 

Harold. This brother comes to 

Your land from waste ; I saved it once 
before, 

For when your people banish'd Tos- 
tig hence, 

And Edward would have sent a host 
against you, 

Then 1, who loved mv brother, bad 
the king 

Who doted on him, sanction your 
decree 

Of Tostig's banishment, and choice of 
Morcar, 

To help the realm from scatter- 
ing. 
Voice. King ! thy brother. 

If one may dare to speak the truth, 
was wrong'd. 

Wild was he, born so : but the plots 
against him 

Had madden'd tamer men. 

Morcar. Thou art one of those 

Who brake into Lord Tostig's treas- 
ure house 

And slew two hundred of his follow- 
ing. 

And now, when Tostig hath come 
back with power, 

j\re frighted back to Tostig. 

Old T/iaiic. Ugh ! Plots and feuds ! 

This is my ninetieth birthday. Can 
ye not 

Be brethren.' Godwin, still at feud 
with Alfgar, 

And Alfgar hates King Harold. 
Plots and feuds ! 

This is my ninetieth birthday ! 

Harold. Old man, Harold 

Hates nothing; not liis fault, if our 
two houses 

Be less than brothers. 

Voices. Aldwyth, Harold, Ald- 

wyth ! 
Harold. Again! Morcar! Edwin! 
What do they mean } 




Harold. 



Edwin. So the gooti king would 
deign to lend an ear 

Not overscornful, we might chance — 
peichance — 

To guess their meaning. 

Morcar. Thine own meaning, Har- 
old, 

To make all England one, to close all 
feuds, 

Mixing our bloods, that thence a king 
may rise 

Half-Godwin and half-Alfgar, one to 

All England beyond question, beyond 
quarrel. ' 
Harold. Who sow'd this fancy 

here among the people } 
Morcar. Who knows what sows 
itself among the people .■* 
A goodly flower at times. 

Harold. The Queen of Wales ? 

Why, Morcar, it is all but duty in 

her 
To hate me ; I have heard she hates 
me. 
Morcar. No ! 

For I can swear to that, but cannot 

swear 
That these will follow thee against 

the Norsemen, 
If thou deny them this. 

Harold. Morcar and Edwin, 

When will ye cease to plot against 

my house? 

Edwin. The king can scarcely 

dream that we, who know 

His prowess in the mountains of the 

West, 
Should care to plot against him in 
the North. 



Mo 


car 


Who dares arraign 






km 


i, of such a 


plot .> 




Ha 


old. 


Ye heard 


one witness 


;ven 


Morcar 




The era 


•en! 


•here 


To 


a faction 
tig, 


risen agam 


for 


ince 




stig came 


with Norway- 




trie. 


It not love 






Ha 


old. 


Morcar 
if I yield. 


nd Edwin, 


will 


"ollow asiainst the Norseman i" 




Mo 


car 




Snrelv. su 


elv! 




Help us against the Norman ? 

Morcar. With good will ; 

Yea, take the Sacrament upon it, king. 
Harold. Where is thy sister ? 
Morcar. Somewhere hard at hand. 
Call and she comes. 

[One i;ocs out, then enter Aldwyth. 
Harold. I doubt not but thou 
knowest 
Why thou art summon'd. 

Aldwyth. Why.' — I stay with 
these, 
Lest thy fierce Tostig spy me out 

alone. 
And flay me all alive. 

Harold. Canst thou love one 

Who did discrown thine husband, un- 

queen thee .' 
Didst thou not love thine husband.' 

Aldwyth. Oh ! my lord. 

The nimble, wild, red, wiry, savage 

king- 
That was, my lord, a match of pol- 

Harohi. Was it ? 

I knew him brave : he loved his land : 

he fain 
Had made her great: his finger on 

her harp 
(I heard him more than once) had in 

it Wales, 
Her floods, her woods, her hills : had 

I been his, 
I had been all Welsh. 
Aldwvth. Oh, ay— all Welsh— and 

yet 
I saw thee drive him up his hills — 



Cling 1 



the 



•'d, if the 



thei 



If not, they cannot hate the conqueror. 
We never — oh ! good Morcar, speak 

for us. 
His conqueror conquer'd .Mdwyth. 
Harold. Goodly'news I 

Morcar. Doubt it not thou I Since 
Griffyth's head was sent 
To Edward, she hath said it. 

Harold. I had rather 

She would have loved her Imshand. 
Aldwyth, Aldwvth, 





Canst thou love me, thou knowing 
where I love ? 
Aldwyth. I can, ray lord, for mine 
own sake, for thine. 
For England, for thy poor white dove, 

who flutters 
Ketvveen thee and the porch, but then 

would find 
Her nest within the cloister, and be 
still. 
Harold. Canst thou love one, who 

cannot love again ? 
Aldwyth. Full hope have I that 

love will answer love. 
Harold. Then in the liame of the 

Come,'Aldred, join our hands before 
the hosts, 

That all may see. 

[Aldred joins tlu- hands of Harold 
and Aldwyth and hUsscs them. 
Voices. Harold, Harold and Ald- 
wyth ! 
Harold. Set forth our golden 
Dragon, let him flap 

The wings that beat down Wales ! 

Advance our Standard of the War- 
Dark among gems and gold ; and 
thou, brave banner, 

Blaze like a night of fatal stars on 
those 

Who read their doom and die. 

Where lie the Norsemen? on the 
Derwent? ay 

At Stamford-bridge. 

Morcar. collect thy men ; Edwin, my 



Tho 



iiiger 



The rosv face and long down-silvering 

beard- 
He told me I should c.inquer:— 
I am no woman tii put faith in dreams. 

Last night King Edward came to me 

in dreams. 
And told me we should conquer. 

Voices. Forward ! Forward ! 

Harold and Holy Cross ! 

Atd'i'vfh. The day is won ! 





Harold and his Guard. 
Harold. Who is it comes this way ? 
Tostig ? (Enter Tostig with a 
small force.) O brother, 
What art thou doing here ? 

To.tliff. I am foraging 

For Norway's army. 
Harold. I could take and slay 
thee. 
Thou art in arms against us. 

Tosti.-. Take and slay me. 

For Eiiward loved me. 

Harolii. I'Alward bad me spare 
thee. 



To 


ti:< 


I 

in'd 


hate King 
with thee 


Ed 


ward, 


Tod 




me 


outlaw'd. 


T 


rke ai 



Or I shall count thee fool. 

Harold. Take thee, or free thee. 
Free thee or slay thee, Norway will 



No 


nan would strike w 
save for Norway. 


th Tostig, 


■Ihoi 


art nothmg in thine 
save for Norway, 


England, 



Who loves not thee but war. What 

di>st thou here, 
Trampling thy mother's bosom into 



She hath w 


ean'd me 


rom 


with such bit 


erness. 




fur mine ow 


1 Earldom 


my 


orthumbria; 






isl [liyen it t 


3 the enen 


y of 


ir house. 






/. Northnml 


ria threw 


thee 


f. she will not 


have thee. 




ast misused 


her : and 


, o 


nwiiiiig crniic 


! 






own guest 


the 



Gamel, at thine own hearth. 

Tostig. The slow, fat fo 

He drawl'd and prated so, I sm 

him suddenly, 
I knew not what I did. Ife held yvilh 

Morcar.— 





I hate myself for all things that I do. 

J/arold. And Morcar holds with 

us. Come back with him. 

Know what thou dost ; and we may 

find for thee, 
So thou be chasten'd by thy banish- 
Some easier earldom. 

Tostit;. What for Norway then .' 

He looks for land among us, he and 

his. 

Harold. Seven feet of English 

land, or something more, 

Seeing he is a giant. 

Tostig. That is noble ! 

That sounds of Godwin. 

Harold. Come thou back, and be 
Once more a son of Godwin. 

Tostig (turns away). O brother, 
brother, 

Harold— 

Harold [laying his hand on Tostig's 

shoulder). Nay then, come 

thou back to us ! 
Tostig [after a pause turning to him ). 

Never shall any man say that I, 

that Tostig 
Conjured the mightier Harold from 

his North 
To do the battle for me here in Eng- 
land, 
Then left him for the meaner ! 

thee !— 
Thou hast no passion for the House 

of Godwin — 
Thou hast but cared to make thyself 

a king— 
Thou hast sold rne for a cry. — 
Thou gavest thy voice against me in 

the Council — 

1 hate thee, and despise thee, and 

defy thee. 
Farewell for ever ! \Exit. 

Harold, On to Stamford-bridge ! 

SCENE ni. 

After the Battle of Stamford- 
Bridge. Banquet. 

Harold and Aldwyth. Gurth, 
Leofwin, Morcar, Edwin, and 
other Earls and Thanes. 





Voices. Hail! Harold I Aldwyth! 

hail, bridegroom and bride ! 
Ahhvyth [talkitig with Harold). 
Answer them thou ! 
Is this our marriage-banquet ? Would 

the wines 
Of wedding had been dash'd into the 

cups 
Of victory, and our marriage and thy 

glory 
Been drunk together ! these poor 

hands but sew, 
Spin, broider — would that they were 

man's to have held 
The battle-axe by thee ! 

Harold. There ivas a moment 

When being forced aloof from all my 

guard. 
And striking at Hardrada and his 

madmen 
I had wish'd for any weapon. 
Aldwyth. Why art thou sad .' 

Harold. I have lost the boy who 
play'd at ball with me. 
With whom I fought another fight 

than this 
Of Stamford-bridge. 

Aldwyth. Ay! ayl thy victories 
Over our own poor Wales, when at 

thy side 
He conquer'd with thee. 

Harold. No— the childish fist 

That cannot strike again. 

Aldwyth. Thou art too kindly. 

Why didst thou let so many Norse- 
men hence ? 
Thy fierce forckings had clench'd 

their pirate hides 
To the bleak church doors, like kites 



need 
thy 



Harold. Is there so great 

to tell thee why ? 
Aldwyth. Yea, am I r 

wife .' 

Voices. Hail, Harold, Aldwyth ! 

Bridegroom aild bride ! 
Aldwyth. Answer them ! 

[Ttf Harold. 

Harold [to all). Earls and Thanes ! 

Full thanks for your fair greeting of 

my bride ! 
Earls, Thanes, and all our country- 
men ! the dav, 





Our dav beside the Derweut will not 
shine 

3ng the goldenest 

of Edward his great 

son, 
Or Athelstan, or English Ironside 
Who fought with Knut, or Knut who 

coming Dane 
Died English. Every man about his 

king 
Fought like a king ; the king like his 



No better 



for all, and all for 



One soul ! and therefore have we 

shatter'd back 
The hugest wave from Norseland 

ever yet 
Surged on us, and our battle-axes 

broken 
The Raven's wing, and dumb'd his 

carrion croak 
From the gray sea for ever. Many 

are gone — 
Drink to the dead who died for us, 

the living 
Who fought and would have died, but 

happier lived, 
If happier be to live ; they both have 

life 
In the large mouth of England, till 

her voice 
Die with the world. Hail— hail ! 
Morcar. May all invaders perish 

like Hardrada ! 
All traitors fail like Tostig ! 

\_All drink but Harold. 
Ald-wyth. Thy cup's full ! 

Harold. I saw the hand of Tostig 

cover it. 
Our dear, dead, traitor-brother, Tostig, 

him 
Reverently we buried. Friends, had 

I been here. 
Without too large self-lauding I must 

hold 
The sequel had been other than his 

league 
With Norvvav, and this battle. Peace 

be with him ! 
He was not of the worst. If there be 

those 





At banquet in this hall, and hearing 

For there be those I fear who prick'd 

the lion 
To make him spring, that sight of 

Danish blood 
Might serve an end not English — 

peace with them 
Likewise, if thev can be at peace with 

what 
God gave us to divide us from the 
wolf! 
Aldwyth [aside to Harold). Make 
not our Morcar sullen : it is 
not wise. 
Harold. Hail to the living who 

fought, the dead who fell ! 
Voices. Hail, hail ! 
First Thane. How ran that answer 
which King Harold gave 
To his dead namesake, when he ask'd 
for England ? 
Leo/win. ' Seven feet of English 
earth, or something more, 
Seeing he is a giant ! ' 

First Thane. Then for the bas- 
tard 
Six feet and nothing more ! 

Leo/win. Ay, but belike 

Thou hast not learnt his measure 

First Thane. By St. Edmund 

I over-measure him. Sound sleep tu 

the man 

Here by dead Norway without dream 

or dawn ! 

Second Thane. What is he br.ni;- 

ging still that he will come 

To thrust our Harold's throne from 

under him .' 
My nurse would tell me of a molehill 

crying 
To a mountain ' Stand aside and 
room for me ! ' 
First Thane. Let him come ! let 
him come. Here's to hiui, sink 
or swim ! {Dnnks. 

Second Thane. God sink him ! 
First Thane. Cannot hands which 
had the strength 
To shove that stranded iceberg off 

our shores, 
And send the shatter'd North asrain 





e his cockle-shell ? What's 
Brunanburg 
To Stamford-bridge ? a war-crash, and 

So loud, that, bv St. Uunstan, old St. 

Thor— ' 
By God. we thought him dead — but 

our old Thor 
Heard his own thunder again, and 

woke and came 
Among us again, and mark'd the sons 

of those 
Who made this Britain England, 

break the North : 

Mark'd how the war-a.xe swang. 
Heard how the war-horn sang, 
Mark'd how the spear-head sprang. 
Heard how the shield-wall rang. 
Iron on iron clang, 
Anvil on hammer bang — 

Second Thane. Hammer on anvil, 
hammer on anvil. Old dog. 
Thou art drunk, old dog ! 

First Than,: Too drunk to fight 
with thee ! 

Second Thane. Fight thou with 
thine own double, not with me. 
Keep that for Norman William ! 

Fh-st Thane. Down with William ! 

Third Thane. The washerwoman's 
brat ! 

Fourth Thane. The tanner's bas- 
tard I 

Fifth Thane. The Falaise byblow I 



[Enter a Thane,//-o* 
spattered with mud. 



Pel 






Harold. Ay, but what late guest. 
As haggard as a fast of forty days, 
And caked and plaster'd with a hun- 
dred mires. 
Hath stumbled on our cups .' 

Thane from Pevemcv- Mv lord the 
King ! 
William the Norman, for the wind 
had changed — 
Harold. I felt it in the middle of 
that fierce fight 
At Stamford-bridge. William hath 
I.iniled. b.T.' 





Thane from Fevensey. Landed at 
Pevensey — I am from Peven- 

Hath wasted all the land at Peven- 
sey— 

I lath harried mine <iwn cattle— God 
confound him I 

I have ridden night and day from 
Pevensey — 

A thousand ships — a hundred thou- 
sand men — 

Thousands of horses, like as many 

Neighing and roaring as they leapt to 

land — 
Harold. How oft in coming hast 

thou broken bread .' 
Thane from Pevensey. Some thrice, 

or so. 
Harold. Bring not thy hollovvness 
On our full feast. Famine is fear, 

were it but 
Of being starved. Sit down, sit 

down, and eat, 
And, when again red-blooded, speak 

again ; 
(Aside.) The men that guarded 

Kngland to the South 
Were scatter'd to the harvest. . . . 

No power mine 
To hold their force together. . . . 

Many are fallen 
At Stamford-bridge . . . the peo- 
ple stupid-sure 
Sleep like their swine . . . in 

South and North at once 
I could not be. 

[Aloud.) Gurth, Leofwin, Morcar, 

Edwin ! 
( Pointing to the revellers.) The curse 

of England ! these are drown'd 

in wassail, 
And cannot see the world but thro' 

their wines I 
Leave them I and thee too, Aldwyth, 

must I leave — 
Harsh is the news ! hard is our 

honeymoon ! 
Thy ijardon. ( Turning round to his 

attendants.) Break the ban- 
quet up ... Ye four ! 
And thou, my carrier-pigeon of black 





thv crop full, but come when 
thou art call'd. \Exit Harold. 



SCENE I.— A Tent on a Mound, 
from which can ke seen the 
Field of Senlac. 

Harold, sittiu^^ ; by him standing 
Hugh Margot the Monk, Gurth, 
Leofwin. 



The 



volf 



Mudded the brook and predetermined 

all. 
Monk, 
Thou hast said thy say, and had my 

constant ' No ' 
For all but instant battle. I hear no 



Marmot. He 
last time 



again— for the 
me, descend the 



Scatter thy people ht 

hill, 
Lay hands of fnll allegiance in thy 

Lord's 
And crave his mercy, for the Holy 

Father 
Hath given this realm of England to 

the Norman. 
Harold. Then for the last time, 

monk, I ask again 
When had the Lateran and the Holv 

Father 
To do with England's choice of her 

own king .' 
Marx'ot. Earl, the first Christian 

Caesar drew to the East 
To leave the Pope dominion in the 

West. 
He gave him all the kingdoms of the 

West. 
Harold. So !— did he ?— Earl— I 

have a mind to play 
The William with thine eyesight and 

thy tongue. 
Earl — ay — thou art but a messenger 

of William. 
I am wearv — ^o : make me not wroth 





Margot. Mock-king, I am 

senger of God, 
His Norman Daniel I Mene, Mene, 

Tekel ! 
Is thy wrath Hell, that I should spare 

to cry. 
Yon heaven is wroth with thee ? 

Hear me again ! 
Our Saints have moved the Church 

that moves th^ world, 
And all the Heavens and verv God : 

they heard— 
Thev know King Edward's promise 

and thine— thine. 
Harold. Should they not know 

free England crowns her- 
self? 
Not know that he nor I had power to 

promise.' 
Not know that Edward canceli'd his 

own promise ? 
And for t>:y part therein — Back to 

that juggler, [Rising. 

Tell him the Saints are nobler than 

he dreams. 
Tell him that God is nobler than the 

Saints, 
And tell him we stand arm'd on 

Senlac Hill, 
And bide the doom of God. 

A/argot. Hear it thro' me. 

The realm for which thou art fore- 
sworn is cursed. 
The babe envvomb'd and at the breast 

is cursed. 
The corpse thou whelmest with thine 

earth is cursed, 
The soul who fighteth on thy side is 

cursed. 
The seed thou sowest in thv field is 



thy 



cursed. 
The steer wherewith thou plowe 

field is cursed, 
The fowl that fleeth o'er thy field is 

cursed, 
And thou, usurper, liar — 

Harold. Out, beast monk! 

[Lifting his hand to strike- him. 
Gurth stops the blo^c. 
I ever hated monks. 

Margot. I am but a voice 

Among you : murder, martyr me if ye 





Harold. Thanks, Gurth ! The 

shnple, silent, selfless man 

Is worth a world of toiiguesters. ( To 

Margot.) Get thee gone ! 

He means the thing he says. See 

him out safe ! 

Leofwin, He hath blown himself 

as red as fire with curses. 

An honest fool I Follow me, honest 

fool, 
But if thou blurt thy curse among our 

folk, 
I know not — I may give that egg-bald 

head 
The tap that silences. 

Harold. See him out safe. 

\Exiuiit Leofwin and Margot. 

Gurth. Thou hast lost thine even 

temper, brother Harold ! 

Harold. Gurth, when I past by 

Waltham, my foundation 

For men who serve the neighbor, not 

themselves, 
I cast me down prone, praying; and, 

when I rose. 
They told me that the Holy Rood had 

And bow'd above me ; whether that 

which held it 
Had weakened, and the Rood itself 

were bound 
To that necessity which binds us 

down ; 
Whether it bow'd at all but in their 



Or if it 
Or glo 



I'hether it symbol'd ruin 
3 shall tell.' but they 



And somewhat sadden'd me. 

Gurth. Yet if a fear, 

Or shadow of a fear, lest the strange 



By whom thou swai 
power to balk 
Thy puissance in this fight w 



, should have 



he king fall, may not the kingdom 





Draw thou to London, there make 

strength to breast 
Whatever chance, but leave this day 

to me. 
Leofwin (entering). And waste the 

land about thee as thou goest, 
And be thy hand as winter on the 

field. 
To leave the foe no forage. 

Harold. Noble Gurth ! 

Best son of Godwin ! If I fall, I 

fall— 
The doom of God I How should the 

people fight 
When the King flies? And, Leof- 
win, art thou mad .'' 
How should the King of England 

waste the fields 
Of England, his own people ? — No 

glance yet 
Of the Northumbrian helmet on the 

heath ? 
Leofwin. No, but a shoal of wives 

upon the heath, 
And someone saw thy willy-nilly nun 
Vying a tress against our golden 

fern. 
Harold. Vying a tear with our 

cold dews, a sigh 
With these low-moaning heavens. 

Let her be fetch'd. 
We have parted from our wife with- 
out reproach, 
Tho" we have pierced thro' all her 

practices ; 
And that is well. 

Leofioiu. I saw her even now : 

She hath not left us. 

Harold. Nought of Morcar then .' 
Gurth. Nor seen, nor heard; thine, 

William's or his own 
As wind blows, or tide flows : belike 

he watches. 
If this war-storm in one of its rough 

rolls 
Wash up that old crown of Northum- 
berland. 
Harold. I married her for Mr 

—a sin against 
The truth of love. Evil for good, it 

seems, 
Is oft as childless of the good as 





Leo/win. Good for good liath 
borne at times 
A bastard false as William. 

Harold. Ay, if Wisdom 

Pair'd not with Good. But I am 

somewhat worn, 
A snatch of sleep were like the peace 

of God. 
Gurth, Leofwin, go once more aljout 

the hill— 
What did the dead man call it — .San- 

guelac. 
The lake of blood .' 

Leoju'in. A lake that dips in \\"i\- 



As' 



Ha 



Ad. 



ugh. 



have 



HarolJ. Li 
seen 

The trenches dug, the palisades up- 
rear'd 

And wattled thick with ash and wil- 
low-wands ; 

Yea, wrought at them myself. Go 
round once more ; 

See all be sound and whole. No 
Norman horse 

Can shatter England, standing shield 
by shield ; 

Tell that again to all. 

Giiit/i. I will, good brother. 

Harold. Our guardsman hath but 

toil'd his hand and foot, 

I hand, foot, heart and head. Some 
wine ! ( One fours wim into a 
goblet ■wliick lie hands to Har- 
old.) Too much ! 

What.' we must use our battle-axe 
to-day. 

Our guardsmen have slept well, since 
we came in .' 
Leofwin. h.'j, slept and snored. 
Your second-sighted man 

That scared the dying conscience of 
the king. 

Misheard their snores for groans. 
They are up again 

And chanting that old song of Brun- 
anburg 

Where England conquer'd. 
Harold. That is well. The Nor- 
man, 

What is he doing ? 





Leofwin. Praying for Normandy; 

Our scouts have heard the tinkle of 

their bells. 

Harold. And our old songs are 

prayers for England too ! 

But by all Saints — 

Leofwin. Barring the Norman ! 

Harold. Nay, 

Were the great trumpet blowing 

doomsday dawn, 
I needs must Vest. Call when the 
Norman moves — 

lE.xeunt nil, hut Harold. 
No horse — thousands of horses — our 

shield wall- 
Wall — break it not — break not — 
break — [Sleeps. 

Vision of Ediuard. Son Harold, I 
thy king, who came before 
To tell thee thou shouldst win at 

Stamford-bridge, 
Come yet once more, from where I am 

at peace, 
Because I loved thee in mv mortal 

day. 
To tell thee thou shalt die on Senlac 

hill— 
Sanguelac I 

Vision of Wulfnoth. O brother, 

from my ghastly oubliette 

I send my voice across the narrow 



lore, dear brother. 



No more, 

never-more — 
Sanguelac ! 

Vision of Tostig. O brother, most 

unbrotherlike to me. 
Thou gavest thy voice against me in 

my life, 
I give my voice against thee from the 

Sanguelac ! 

Vision of Norman Saints. O hap- 
less Harold ! King but for an 

Thou swarest falsely by our blessed 

bones. 
We give our voice against thee out of 

heaven ! 
Sanguelac! Sanguelac! The arrow! 

the arrow! 
Harold [starling up, battle-, 

/land). Av 





gainst your voices, 
word — ' the arrow ! ' 



Mv battle-ax 

Peace 
The king's 1 

I shall die— 
I die for England then, who lived for 

England — 
What nobler? men must die. 
I cannot fall into a falser 

world — 
I have done no man wrong. Tostig, 

poor brother, 



.-Vrt tho 



inger 



Fain had I kept thine earldom in thy 

hands 
.Save for thy wild and violent will 

that wrench'd 
.*\11 hearts of freemen from thee. I 

could do 
No other than this way advise the 

king 
Against the race of Godwin. Is it 

possible 
That mortal men should bear their 

earthly heats 
Into yon bloodless world, and threaten 

us thence 
Unschool'd of Death.' Thus then 

thou art revenged — " 
I left our England naked to the 

South 
To meet thee in the North. The 

Norseman's raid 
Hath helpt the Norman, and the race 

of Godwin 
Hath ruin'd Godwin. No — our wak- 
ing thoughts 
Suffer a stormless shipwreck in the 

pools 
Of sullen slumber, and arise 

again 
Disjointed: only dreams — where 



owr 



Take 



vselfl Whv 



part against 
for a spark 
Of self-disdain born in me when I 

sware 
Falsely to him, the falser Norman, 
over 
, gilded ark of mummy-saints, by 



that I sware, — not for my- 




For England — yet not wholly- 




(Enter Edith.) 

Edith, Edith, 
Get thou into thy cloister as the king 
Will'd it be safe : the perjury-mon- 

gering Count 
Hath made too good an use of Holy 

Church 
To break her close ! There the great 

God of truth 
Fill all thine hours with peace! — .\ 

lying devil 
Hath haunted me — mine oath — my 

wife— I fain 
Had made my marriage not a lie; I 

could not : 
Thou art my bride ! and thou in after 

Praying perchance for this poor soul 

of mine 
In cold, white cells beneath an icy 

moon — 
This memory to thee ! — and this to 

England, 
My legacy of war against the Pope 
From child to child, from Pope to 

Pope, from age to age. 
Till the sea wash her level with her 

shores, 
Or till the Pope be Christ's. 



E,iL-i 
Aldwyth (to 



Edith. I will . . . 
spoken to the kin; 
One word ; and one I 
well ! 



). Away from 
. I have not 



t. Fare- 
[(7c/«f. 
Not vet. 



Harold. 
Stay. 
Edith. To what use .' 
Harold. The king commands thee, 
woman ! 

( To Aldwyth.) 
Have thy two brethren sent their 
forces in .' 
Aldwvtk. Nay, I fear not. 
Harold. Then there's no force in 
thee ! 
Thou didst possess thyself of Ed- 



ward's 



the 





Thou didst arouse the fierce Northum- 
brians ! 
Thou hast been false to England and 

to me I — 
As . . . in some sort ... I have 

been false to thee. 
Leave me. No mure — Pardon on 
both sides — Go ! 
Aldwyth. Alas, my lord, I loved 

thee. 
Harold (bitterly). With a love 

Passi;ig thy love for Griffyth ! where- 
fore now 
Obey my first and last commandment. 
Go! 
Aldwyth. O Harold! husband! 

Shall we meet again .' 
Harold. After the battle— after 

the battle. Go. 

Aldwyth. I go. [Aside.) That I 

could stab her standing there ! 

{Exit Aldwyth. 

•Edith. Alas, my lord, she loved 

thee. 
Harold. Never! never! 

jEdith. I saw it in her eyes ! 
Harold. I .see it in thine. 

And not on thee — nor England — fall 
God's doom ! 
Edith. On thee ? on me. And 
thou art England ! Alfred 
Was England. Ethelred was noth- 
ing. England 
Is but her king, and thou art Harold ! 
Harold Edith, 

The sign in heaven — the sudden blast 

at sea — 
My fatal oath — the dead .Saints— the 

dark dreams — 
The Pope's Anathema — the Holy 

Rood 
That bow'd tome at Waltham— Edith, 

if 
I, the last English King of England— 
Edith. No, 

First of a line that coming from the 

people. 
And chosen bv the people — 

Harold, ' And fighting for 

And dying for the people — 

Edith. Living! living! 

Harold. Vea so, good cheer ! thSu 

art Harold, I am Edith ! 





Look not thus wan ! 

Edith. What matters how I look .> 

Have we not broken Wales and 
Norseland? slain. 

Whose life was all one battle, incar- 
nate war. 

Their giant-king, a mightier man-in- 

Than William. 

Harold. Ay, my girl, no tricks in 

him— 
No bastard he ! when all was lost, he 

yell'd. 
And bit his shield, and dash'd it on 

the ground. 
And swaying his two-handed swuid 

about him, 
Two deaths at every swing, ran in 

upon us 
And died so, and I loved him as I 

hate 
This liar who made me liar. If Hate 

can kill. 
And Loathing wield a Saxon battle- 

a.\e — 
Edith. Waste not thy might before 

the battle! 
Harold. No, 

And thou must hence. Stigand will 

see thee safe. 
And so — Farewell. 

[He is soiit,s^. but turns back. 

The ring thou darest not wear, 
I have had it fashion'd, see, to meet 

my hand. 
[Harold sho^vs the ring which is 

o>i his finger. 
Farewell I 

\_He IS going, but turns back again. 
I am dead as Death this day to ought 

of earth's 
Save William's death or mine. 

Edith. Thy death !— to-day ! 

Is it not thy birthday ? 

Harold. Ay, that happy day ! 

A birthday welcome ! happy days 

and many ! 
One— this! [They embrace. 

Look, I will bear thy blessing into the 

battle 
And front the doom of God. 
Norman cries (heard in the dista 

Ha Rou ! Ha Rou ! 





Enter GURTH. 
Gurth. The Norman moves ! 
Harold. Harold and Holy Cross ! 
lExeunt Harold and Gurth. 

Enter Stigand. 
Stigand. Our Church in arms — the 
lamb the lion — not 
Spear into pruning-hook — the counter 

way — 
Cowl, helm ; and crozier, battle-axe. 

Abbot Alfwig, 
Leofric, and all the monks of Peter- 

boro' 
Strike for the king ; but I, old wretch, 

old Stigand, 
With hands too limp to brandish iron 

— and yet 
I have a power — would Harold ask 

me for it— 
I have a power. 
Editk. What power, holy father.' 
Stigand. Power now from Harold 
to command thee hence 
And see thee safe from Senlac. 

Edith. I remain ! 

Stigand. Yea, so will I, daughter, 
until I find 
Which way the battle balance. I can 

From where we stand : and, live or 

die, I would 
I were among them ! 

Canons front Waltham (singing with- 
out). 

Salva patriam 
Sancte Pater, 
Salva Fill, 
Salva Spiritus, 
Salva patriam, 
Sancta Mater.i 

Edith. Are those the blessed angels 

quiring, father .' 
Stigand. No, daughter, but the 

canons out of Waltham, 





The king's foundation, that have fol- 
low'd him. 
Edith. O God of battles, make 
their wall of shields 
Firm as thy cliffs, strengthen their 

palisades ! 
What is that whirring sound ? 
Stigand. The Norman arrow ! 

Edith. Look out upon the battle — 

is he safe .' 
Stigand. The king of England 
stands between his banners. 
He glitters on% the crowning of the 

hill. 
God save King Harold I 

Edith. — chosen by his people 

.'\nd fighting for his people ! 

Stigand. There is one 

Come as Goliath came of yore — he 
flings 



His 



brand 
again. 
He is chanting somi 

Edith. 
To meet him ? 
Stigand. Ay, the 



ches it 



: sprmgs a .Sa.xc 



Edith. 



mother falls. 

Have mercy on us! 
Lo ! our good Gurth hath 
■ ■ 1 to'the death. 
Edith. So perish all the enemies 

of Harold ! 
Canons [singing). 

Hostis in Angliam 

Ruit pr,-edator, 
Illorum, Doniine, 

Scutum scindatur ! 
Hostis per Angliae 
Plagas bacchatur; 
Casa crematur. 
Pastor fugatur 
Grex trucidatur — 



(singing). 
Illorum scelera 
Poena sequatui 





id. Our javelins 

their arrows. All the Nor- 
man foot 
Are storming up the hill. The range 

of knights 
Sit, each a statue on his horse, and 

English cries. Harold and God 

Almighty ! 
Norman cries. Ha Rou ! Ha Rou ! 
Canons (singing). 

Eques cum pedite 

Praepediatur ! 
Illorum in lacrymas 

Cruor fundaturl 
Pereant, pereant, 

Anglia precatur. 

Stigand. Look, daughter, look. 
Editk. Nay, father, look for me ! 
Stigand. Our axes lighten with a 
single flash 
About the summit of the hill, and 

lieads 
And arms are sliver'd off and splin- 

ter'd by 
Their lightning — and they fly— the 
Norman flies. 
Edith. .Stigand, O father, have we 

Stigand. No, daughter, no — they 
fall behind the horse — 
Their horse are thronging to the barri- 
cades ; 
I see the gonfanon of Holy Peter 
Floating above their helmets — ha ! he 
is down ! 
Edith. He down ! Who down ? 
Stigand. The Norman Count is 

Edith. So perish all the enemies 

of England ! 
Stigand. No, no, he hath risen 
again — he bares his face — 
Shouts something — he points onward 

—all their horse 
Swallow the hill locust-like, swarming 



Edith. O God of battles, make his 
battle-axe keen 
As thine own sharp-dividing justice, 
heavy 




As thine own bolts tha 

ful heads 
Charged with the weight of heaven 
wherefrom they fall ! 
Canons [singing). 

Jacta tonitrua 

Deus bellator ! 

Surgas e tenebris, 

Sis vindicator ! 

Fulmina, fulmina 

Deus vastator ! 

es, they are 



Edith. O God of 
three to one, 
Make thou one man as three 
them down ! 
Canons {singing). 

Equus cum equite 
Dejiciatur ! 



roll 



Aci. 



Acii 



Prona sternatur ! 

Illorum lanceas 

Frange Creator I 

Stigand. Yea, yea, for how their 

lances snap and shiver 

Against the shifting blaze of Harold's 

axe ! 
War-woodman of old Woden, liow he 

fells 
The mortal copse of faces ! There ! 

And there ! 
The horse and horseman cannot meet 

the shield, 
The blow that brains the horseman 

cleaves the horse. 
The horse and horseman roll along 

the hill. 
They fly once more, they fly, the Nor- 
man flies ! 

Equus cum equite 
Prsecipitatur. 
Edith. O Goil, the God of truth 
hath heard my cry. 
Follow them, folh 
to the sea ! 

Illorum scelera 
Pcena sequatur 
Stigand. Truth ! no ; a 
a Norman trick ! 




— 










zSTTI 1 1,3 


■old. .ACT \'. - 


\ 




1 


- 332 Ha 


They turn on the pursuer, horse 


So piled about him he can hardly 






against foot, 




\ 








They murder all that follow. 


Edith (takes up the war-ery). Out ! 


? 






cAfl Edith. Have mercy on us ! 
Sti^aud. Hot-lieaded fools— to 


out ! <AJ 






AWman cries. Ha Rou I 






burst the wall of shields ! 


Edith (cries out). Harold and Holy 






They have broken the commandment 


Cross ! 






of the king ! 


Norman cries. Ha Rou! Ha 






Edith. His oath was broken— O 


Roul 






holy Norman Saints, 


Edith. What is that whirring 






Ve that are now of heaven, and see 


sound? 






beyond 


Stigand. The Norman sends his 






Vour Norman shrines, pardon it, par- 


arrows up to Heaven, 






don it, 


Thev fall on those within the pali- 






That he forsware himself for all he 


■ sade! 






loved. 


Edith. Look out upon the hill— is 






Me, me and all! Look out upon the 


Harold there ? 






battle! 


Stigand. Sanguelac— Sanguelac— 






Stigand. They thunder again upon 


the arrow— the arrow !— away ! 






the barricades. 








My sight is eagle, but the strife so 








thick- 


SCENE n.— Field ok the Dead. 






Thls is the hottest of it: hold, ash! 


Night. 






hold, willow ! 








Eiigiis/i cries. Out, out I 


AldvvYTH and Edith. 






A'onnan cries. Ha Rou ! 








Stigand. Ha! Gurth hath leapt 


Ald-u'vth. O Edith, art thou here ? 






upon him 
And slain him : he hath fallen. 


O Harold, Harold— 






Our Harold— we shall never see him 






Edith. And I am heard. 


more. 






Glory to God in the Highest ! fallen, 


Edith. For there was more than 






fallen 1 


sister in my kiss. 






Stigand. No, no, his horse— he 


And so the saints were wroth. I can- 






mounts another— wields 


not love them, 






His war club, dashes it on Gurth, and 


For thev are Norman saints— and yet 






Gurth, 


, I'should— 






Our noble Gurth, is down ! 


They are scr much holier than their 






Edith. Have mercy on us ! 


harlot's son 






Stigand. And Leofwin is down 1 


With whom they plav'd their game 






Edith. Have mercy on us 1 


ag.ainst the king! 






O Thou that knowest, let not my 


Alduiyth. The kini; is slain, the 






Be weaken'd m 'thy sight, because I 


kingdom overthu.isn! 






Edith. No matter! 






love 


Ald-wxth. How no matter, Harold 






The husband of another! 


slain ?— 






Norman cries. Ha Rou 1 Ha Ron I 


I cannot find his bodv. O help me 






Edith. I do not hear our English 


"'°" • r-^ 






«Y> war-cry. 


O Edith, if I ever wTOught against fY? 








Stigand. No. 


thee, 










Edith. Look out upon the battle 


Forsive me thou, and help me here! 


■ 








-is he safe.> 


Edith. No matter! 










Stigand. He stands between the 


Aidu-ylh. Not help me, nor forgive 








\ 


banners with the dead 


c . ,X 


■ 




^i 1 £^ 








_ 




Edith. So thou saidest. 

Ahhvyth. I say it now, forgive 

Edilh. Cross me not ! 

I am seeking one who wedded me in 

secret. 
Whisper! God's angels only know it. 

What art thou doing here among the 

dead .•■ 
They are stripping the dead bodies 

naked yonder, 
And thou art come to rob them of 
their rings ! 
Aldwyth. O Edith, Edith, I have 
lost both crown 
And husband. 

Edith. So have I. 

Aldwyth. I tell thee, girl, 

I am seeking my dead Harold. 

Edith. And I mine ! 

The Holy Father strangled him with a 

hair 
Of Peter, and his brother Tostig 

helpt ; 
The wicked sister clapt her hands and 

laugh'd; 
Then all the dead fell on him. 

Aldwyth. Edith, Edith— 

Edith. What was he like, this hus- 
band .' like to thee ? 
Call not for help from me. I knew 

himnot. 
He lies not here: not close beside the 

standard. 
Here fell the truest, manliest hearts of 

England. 
Go further hence and find him. 

Aldwyth. She is crazed ! 

Edith. That doth not matter 
either. Lower the light. 
He must be here. 

Enter two Canons, OsGOD and 
Athelric, with toahe.<. They 
turn o^ier the dead bodies and 
examine them as thev pass. 
Osgod. I think that this is Thur- 



Aihelric. More likely Godric. 

I am sure this body 
Ufwig, the king's uncle. 





A their ie. So it is I 

No, no — brave Gurth, one gash from 
brow to knee ! 
Osgod. And here is Leofwin. 
Edith. And here is He ! 

Aldwyth. Harold.' Oh no— nay, 
if it were — my God, 
They have so maim'd and murder'd 

all his face 
There is no man can swear to 
him. 
Edith. But one woman ! 

Look you, we never mean to part 

again. 
I have found him, I am happy. 
Was there not 



Williatn. Who be these women .' 
And what body is this .' 

Edith. Harold, thy better ! 

William. Ay, and what art thou .' 

Edith. His wife ! 

Malet. Not true, my girl, here is 
the Queen ! [Pointing out Ald- 
wyth. 

William (to Aldwyth). Wast thou 
his Queen .' 

Aldwyth. I was the Queen of 
Wales. 

William. Why then of England. 
Madam, fear us not. 

(7> Malet). Knowest thou this 
other .' 

Malet. When I vi-;ited England. 
Some held she was his wife in secret — 

some — 
Well — some believed she was his para- 
mour. 

Edith. Norman, thou liest ! liars 
all of you, 
Your Saints and all I /am his wife ! 

and she — 
For look, our marriage ring ! 

\She draws it off the finger of 

I lo.st it somehow — 





t It, playing witli it w 
wild. 
That bred the doubt ! but 



hen I was 
[ am wiser 
jne among 



Bear 



■ise . . . Will 

rue witness — only for this 



That I have found it here again ? 

\Slu- puts il on. 

And thou, 

Thy wife am I for ever and evermore. 

{Falls on the body and dies. 

William. Death ! — and enough of 

death for this one day, 

The day of St. Calixtus, and the day, 

My day when I was born. 

Malet. And this dead king's 

Who, king or not, hath kinglike 

fought and fallen. 
His birthday, too. It seems but 

vester-even 
I held it with him in his English halls, 
His day. with all his rooftree ringing 

• Harold,' 
Before he fell into the snare of Guy; 
When all men counted Harold would 

be king. 
And Harold was most happy. 

William. Thou art half English. 
Take them away ! 
Malet, I vow to build a church to 

God 
Here on the hill of battle; let our 

high altar 
Stand where their standard fell . . . 

where these two lie. 
Take them away, I do not love to see 

them. 
Pluck the dead w. 
man, Malet 
Malet. Faster than i _ 
hack her arms off ? 
How shall I part them .' 

William. Leave them. Let them 
be! 
Bury him and his paramour together, 
lat was false in oath to me, it 
seems 
false to his own wife. We will 

I : vet he was a 



off the dead 
ivv. Must I 





And wise, yea truthful, till th; 

blighted vow 
Which God avenged to-day. 
Wrap them together in a 

cloak 
And lay them both upon the waste 

seashore 
At Hastings, there to guard the land 

for which 
He did forswear himself — a warrior — 

ay, 
And but that Holy Peter fought (or 

us, 
And that the false Northumbrian held 

aloof, 
And save for that chance arrow which 

the Saints 
Sharpen'd and sent against him — who 

can tell ?— 
Three horses had I slain beneath me : 

I thought that all was lost. Since I 

knew battle. 
And that was from my boyhood, never 

yet- 
No, by the splendor of God — have I 

fought men 
Like Harold and his brethren, and his 



about his 



Of English. Every 
king 

Fell where he stood. They loved 
him : and, pray God 

My Normans may but move as true 
with me 

To the door of death. Of one self- 
stock at first. 

Make them again one people — Nor- 
man, English; 

And English, Norman; we should 
have a hand 

To grasp the world with, and a foot 

Flat. Praise the Saints. It is over. 

No more blood ! 
I am king of England, so they thwart 

me not, 
And I will rule according to their 

laws. 
[To Aldwyth.) Madam, we will 

entreat thee with all honor. 
.4ldwyth. My punishment is more 

than I can bear. 





B E C K E T. 

To THE Lord Chancellor, 

THE RIGHT HONORABLE EARL OF SELBORNE. 

My dear Selborne— To you, the honored Chancellor o£ our own day, I dedicate thi- 
dramatic memorial of your great predecessor ;— which, allho' not intended in its presen 
form to meet the exigencies of our modern theatre, has nevertheless— for so you havt 
assured me— won your approbation.— Ever yours, TENNYSON. 




DRAMA T/S PERSONM. 
Henkv \\.(son of the Earl of AnjouS. 

Thomas Becket, Chancellor of England^ a/ttrwards Archbishop oj Canterl-u 
Gilbert Foliot, Bishop of London. 
Roger, A rchbishop of York. 
Bishop of Herg/ord. 
Hilary, Bishop o/ Chichester. 
JOCELYN, Bishop of Salisbury. 

John of Salisbury i , . . ^ „ ^ ^ 

i, „ '. friends of Becket. 

Herbert of Bosham ( •' ■' 

W.alter Map, reputed author of ^Golias,^ Latin poetns against the priesthood. 

King Lot-is of France. 

Geoffrev, son of Rosamund and Henry. 

Grim, a monk of Cambridge. 

Sir Reginald Fitzurse 1 

Sir Richard de Brito \ the four knights of the King's household, enemt, 

Sir William de Tracy f Beciet. 

Sir Hugh de Morville j 

De Broc of Saltwood Castle. 

Philip de Eleemosvna. 

Two Knight Te.mplars, 

John of Oxfokp (called the Sioearer). 

Eleanor of .^ouitaine. Queen of England {di-vorced from Louis of France). 

Rosamund de Clifford. 



Knights. .Plonks. Begga 



, etc. 



\ Castle ill A'ormaitdv. Interior of 
the Hall. Roofs if a City seen 
thro' Windows. 

Henry and Becket ,// ehess. 
Henry. .So then our good .-Vrch- 
bishop Theobald 
Lies dying. 
Beekel. I am grieved to know as 
much. 



Henry. But we must have a might- 
ier man than he 
For his successor. 
Becket. Have you thought of one ? 
Henry. A cleric lately poison'd 
his own mother, 
And being brought before the courts 

of the Church, 
They but degraded him. I hope they 

whipt him. 
I would have hang'd him. 

Becket. It is \our move. 

Henry. Well— there. {Min'cs. 





Beckct. 



the pell-mell of Ste- 



The Church 

liath climb'd the throne and almost 

clutch'd the crown ; 
i!ut by the royal customs of our 



The Church 

of me, 

Like other 



lould hold her baronies 
lords amenable to 
and made 



I'll have them written dov 
the law. 
Becket. My liege, I move my 

bishop. 
Henry. And if I live, 

No man without my leave shall ex- 
communicate 
My tenants or my household. 
Beiki't. Look to your king. 

Henry. No man without my leave 
shall cross the seas 
To set the Pope against me — I pray 
your pardon. 
Bech-t. Well— will you move ? 
Hcry. There. \_M<n-es. 

Bi-ckit. Check — you move so 

wildly. 
Henry. There then! [Mmes. 

Beckit. Why— there then, for you 
see my bishop 
Hath brought your king to a stand- 
still. You are beaten. 
Henry (kicks mm- the hoard). Why, 
there then — down go bishop 
and king together. 
I loathe being beaten ; had I fi.xt my 



fane 



should have beaten 



Upon the game 
thee, 

But that was vagabond. 

Becket. Where, my liege .' With 
Phryne, 

Or Lais, or thy Rosamund, or an- 
other? 
Henry. My Rosamund is no Lais, 
Thomas Becket ; 

And yet she plagues me too — no fault 
in her — 

But that I fear the Queen would have 

Beeket. Put her away, put her 
away, my liege ! 
Put her awav into a nunnery ! 





Safe enough there from her to whom 

thou an bound 
By Holy Church. And wherefore 

should she seek 
The life of Rosamund de Clifford 

more 
Than that of other paramours of 

thine .' 
Henry. How dost thou know I am 

not wedded to her t 
Becket. How should I know? 
Henry. That is my secret, Thomas. 
Becket. State secrets should be 

patent to the statesman 
Who serves and loves his king, and 

whom the king 
Loves not as statesman, but true lover 

and friend. 
Henry. Come, come, thou art but 

deacon, not yet bishop. 
No, nor archbishop, nor my confessor 

yet. 
I would to God thou wert, for I- 

should find 
An easy father confessor in thee. 
Becket. St. Denis, that thou 

shouldst not. I should beat 
Thy kingship as my bishop hath 

beaten it. 
Henry. Hell take thy bishop then, 

and my kingship too ! 
Come, come, I love thee and I know 

thee, I know thee, 
A doter on white pheasant-flesh at 

feasts, 
A sauce-deviser for thy days of 

fish. 



Wil 



lot thy body rebel, man, 
flatter it ? ' 
Becket. That palate is insai 
cannot tell 
A good dish from a bad 
from old. 
Henry. Well, who 

loves woman. 

Beeket. So I do. 

Men are God's trees, and 

God's flowers ; 
And when the Gascon v 
to my head, 














^g 1 H ^ 1 1 m 


>i 




■ ■ FKOLOGUE. i?,. 


■kef. 337 - 


The trees are all the statelier, and the 


Take, keep it, friend. See, first, a 




■ ■ flowers 


circling wood, 








Are all the fairer. 


.A hundred pathways running every- 








cAs Ihnyy. And thy thoughts, thy fan- 


way, <As 






cies? 


.\\\A then a brook, a bridge ; and after 






Bcckct. Good dogs, my liege, well 


that 






traiii'd, and easily call'd 


This labyrinthine brickwork maze in 






( Iff from the game. 


maze, 






Henry. Save for some once or 


And then another wood, and in the 






twice. 


midst 






When they ran down the game and 


A garden and my Rosamund. Look, 






worried it. 


this line— 






Bfckct. No, my liege, no!— not 


The rest you see is color'd green — but 






once— in God's name, no ! 


this 






Henry. Nay, then, I take thee at 


Draws thro' the chart to her. 






thv word — believe thee 


Becket. This blood-red line .' 






The veriest Galahad of old Arthur's 


Henry. Ay ! blood, perchance, e.\- 






hall. 


cept thou see to her. 






And so this Rosamund, my true heart- 


Becket. And where is she 1 There 






wife. 


in her English nest .' 






Not Eleanor— she whom I love in- 


Henrv. Would God she were— no, 






deed 


here within the city. 






As a woman should be loved— Why 


We take her from her secret bower in 






dost thou smile 


Anjou 






Sodolorouslv.' 


And pass her to her secret bower in 






B^ckil. 'Mv good liege, if a man 


England. 






Wastes himself among women, how 


She is ignorant of all but that I love 






should he love 


her. 






A woman, as a woman should be 


Becket. My liege, I pray thee let 






loved.' 


me hence : a widow 






Henry. How shouldst thou know 


And orphan child, whom one of thv 






that never hast loved one .> 


wild barons 






Come, I would give her to thy care in 


Henry. Ay, ay, but swear to see 
to her in England. 






Enstland 






When I am out in Normandy or An- 


Becket. Well, well, I swear, but 






jou. 


not to please myself. 






Becket. Mv lord, I am your subject. 


Henry. Whatever come between 






not your 


us' 






Henrv. Pander. 


Becket. What should come 






God's eyes ! I know all that— not my 


Between us, Henrv .' 






purveyor 


Henrv. Nay- 1 know not. 






Of pleasures, but to save a life— her 


Thomas. ' 






life; 


Becket. What need then? Well- 






Av, and the soul of Eleanor from hell- 


whatever come between us. 






fire. 


[Goinic. 






I have built a secret bower in Eng- 


Henry. A moment! thou didst 






land, Thomas, 


help me to mv throne 






'Y* A nest in a bush. 


In Theobald's time', and after by thy ^V 






. . Beekct. And where, my liege ? 


wisdom 








Henry (whisfers). Thine ear. 


Hast kept it firm from shaking; but 








Becket. That's lone enough. 


now I, 








Henrv {hivim; paper on table). This 


For mv realm's sake, myself must be 








11 chart'here mark'd ' Her Bcnver,' 


■the wizard 


] 




^3 1 13 i. 1 1 Lijyi 











To raise that tempest which will set it 



."S, 



Only to base it deeper. 1, true son 
' Holy Church — no croucher to the 

Gregories 
That tread the kings their children 

underheel— 
Must curb her ; and the Holy Father, 

while 
This Barbarossa butts hin> from his 

chair, 
Will need my help — be facile to my 

hands. 
Now is my time. Yet— lest there 

should be flashes 
.\ud fulminatioiis from the side of 

An interdict on England— I will have 
My young son Henry crown'd the 

King of England, 
That so the Papal bolt may pass by 

England, 
As seeming his, not mine, and fall 

abroad. 
I'll have it done— and now. 

Beckct. Surely too young 

Even for this shadow of a crown ; and 

tho' 
I love him heartily, I can spy al- 
ready 
A strain of hard and headstrong in 

him. .Say. 
The Queen should play his kingship 
against thine ! 
Henry. I will not think so, 
Thomas. Who shall crown 
him? 
Canterbury is dying. 

Becket. The next Canterbury. 

Henry. And who shall he be, my 

friend Thomas ? Who ? 
Becket. Name him; the Holy 

Father will confirm him. 
Henry (lays his hand on Becket's 

shoulder). Here ! 
Becket. Mock me not. I am not 
even a monk. 
Thy jest — no more. Why — look — is 

this a sleeve 
For an archbishop } 

Henry. But the arm within 

Is Becket's, who hath beaten down 
mv foes. 





Becket. A soldier's 

arm. 
Henry. I lack a si 
Thomas — 
A man of this world and the 
boot. 
Becket. There's Gilbert Foliot. 
Henry. He! too thin, too thin. 

Thou art the man to fill out the 

Church robe; 
Your Foliot fasts and fawns too much 
for me. 
Becket. Roger of York. 
Henry. Roger is Roger of York. 
King, Church, and State to him but 

foils wherein 
To set that precious jewel, Roger of 

York. 
No. 
Becket. Henry of Winchester ? 
Henry. Him who crown'd Stephen 
—King Stephen's brother ! 
No ; too royal for me. 
And I'll have no more Anselms. 

Becket. Sire, the business 

Of thy whole kingdom waits me : let 
me go. 
Henry. Answer me first. 
Becket. Then for thy barren jest 
Take thou mine answer in bare com- 
monplace — 
Nolo episcopari. 

Henry. Ay, but Nolo 

Archiepiscopari, my good friend, 
Is quite another matter. 

Becket. A more awful one. 

Make me archbishop ! Why, my 

liege, I know- 
Some three or four poor priests a 

thousand times 
Fitter for this grand function. Afe 

archbishop ! * 

God's favor and king's favor might 
so clash 

That thou and I That were a jest 

indeed ! 
Henry. Thou angerest me, man : I 
do not jest. 
Enter Eleanor and Sra Rk 

FiTZUKSE. 





The reign of the loses is done 

Henry (io Becket, who is going). 

Thou shalt not go. I have not 

ended with thee. 

EUauor (sa-iiig chart on tabic). 

This chart with the red line! her 

bower ! whose bower ? 

Henry. The chart is not mine, but 
liecket's : take it, Thomas. 

Eleanor. Becket ! O— ay— and 
these chessmen on the floor — the 
king's crown broken ! Becket hath 
beaten thee again— and thou hast 
kicked down the board. I know 
thee of old. 

Henry. True enough, my mind 

was set upon other matters. 
Eleanor. What matters.'- State 

matters.' love matters.'' 
Henry. My love for thee, and thine 

for me. 
Eleanor. Over ! the sweet summer 
closes. 
The reign of the roses is done ; 
Over and gone with the roses. 
And over and gone with the sun. 

Here ; but our sun in Aquitaine 
lasts longer. I would I were in Aqui- 
taine again — your north chills me. 

Over! the sweet summer closes. 
And never a flower at the close ; 

Over and gone with the roses, 
And winter again and the snows. 



the 



way 



I ended 



— but unsymmetrically, preposter- 
ously, illogically, out of passion, with- 
out art — like a 
Will you have it 
shaft of a forlorn Cupid at the King's 
left breast, and all left-handedness 
and under-handedness. 

And never a flower at the close. 
Over and gone with the roses. 

Not over and gone with the rose, 
will outblossom the 
rest, one rose in a- bower. I speak 
after my fancies, for I am a Trouba- 
dour, you know, and won the violet at 
Toulouse ; but my voice is harsh 
here, not in tune, a nightingale out of 





season ; for marriage, rose or no 
rose, has killed the golden violet. 

Becket. Madam, you do ill to scorn 
wedded love. 

Eleanor. So I do. Louis of 
France loved me, and I dreamed that 
I loved Louis of France : and I loved 
Henry of England, and Henry of 
England dreamed that he loved me ; 
but the marriage-garland withers even 
with the putting on, the bright link 
rusts with the breath of the first after- 
marriage kiss, the harvest moon is the 
ripening of the harvest, and the honey- 
moon is the gall of love ; he dies of 
his honeymoon. I could pity this 
poor world myself that it is no "better 
ordered. 

Henry. _ Dead is he, my Queen .' 
What, altogether t Let me swear nay 
to that by this cross on thy neck. 
God's eves ! what a lovely cross ! 
What jewels! 

Eleanor. Doth it please you ? 
Take it and wear it on that hard heart 
of yours — there. YGives it to him. 

Henry (puts it on). On this left 
breast before so hard a heart, 
To hide the scar left by thy Parthian 
dart. 

Eleanor. Has my simple song set 
you jingling .' Nay, if I took and 
translated that hard heart into our 
Proven9al facilities, I could so play 
about it with the rhyme 

Henry. That the heart were lost 
in the rhyme and the matter in the 
metre. May we not pray you, Madam, 
to spare us the hardness of your facil- 

Eleanor. The wells of Castaly are 
not wasted upon the desert. We did 
but jest. 

Henry. There's no jest on the 
brows of Herbert there. What is it, 
Hferbert > 



Enter HERBERT OF BOSHAM. 

Herbert. My liege, the good Arch- 
ishop is no more. 
Henry. Peace to his soul ! 
Herbert. I left him with peac 





his face — that sweet other-worid stnile, 
which will be reflected in the spiritual 
body among the angels. But he 
longed much to see your Grace and 
the Chancellor ere he past, and his 
last words were a commendation of 
Thomas Becket to your Grace as his 
successor in the archbishopric. 

Henry. Ha, Becket ! thou remem- 
berest our talk ! 

Becket. Mv heart is full of tears— 
I have no answer. 

Henry. Well, well, old men must 
die, or the world would grow mouldy, 
would only breed the past again. 
Come to me to-morrow. Thou hast 
but to hold out thy hand. Mean- 
while the revenues are mine. A- 
hawking, a-hawking ! If I sit, I grow 
fat. \Leaps mer the table ami e.xit. 

Becket. He did prefer me to the 
chancellorship. 
Believing I should ever aid the 

Church- 
But have I done it .' He commends 

me now 
From out his grave to this archbishop- 
ric. 

Herbert. A dead man's dying wish 
should be of weight. 

Becket. His should. Come with 
me. Let me learn at full 
The manner of his death, and all he 
said. 
\Exeunt Herbert amt Becket. 

Eleanor. Fitzurse, that chart with 
the red line — thou sawest it — her 
bower. 

Fitzurse. Rosamund's > 

Eleanor. Ay — there lies the secret 
of her whereabouts, and the King 
gave it to his Chancellor. 

Fitzurse. To this son of a London 
merchant — how your Grace must hate 
him. 

Eleanor. Hate him ? as brave a 
soldier as Henry and a goodlier man : 
but thou — dost thou love this Chan- 
cellor, that thou hast sworn a volun- 
tary allegiance to him .> 

Fitzurse. Not for my love toward 
him, but because he had the love of 
the King. How should a baron love 





a beggar on horseback, with the 
retinue of three kings behind hini, 
outroyalling royalty? Besides, he 
holp the King to break down oar 
castles, for the which I hate him. 

Eleanor. For the which I honor 
him. Statesman not Churchman he. 
A great and sound policy that : I 
could embrace him for it : you could 
not see the King for the king- 
lings. 

Fitzurse. Ay, but he speaks to a 
noble as tho' he were a churl, and to 
a churl as if he were a noble. 

Eleanor. Pride of the plebeian I 

Fitzurse. And this plebeian like 
to be Archbishop ! 

Eleanor. True, and I have an in- 
herited loathing of these black sheep 
of the Papacy. Archbishop .> I can 
see further into a man than our hot- 
headed Henry, and if there ever come 
feud between Church and Crown, and 
I do not then charm this secret 
out of our loyal Thomas, I am not 
Eleanor. 

Fitzurse. Last night I followed a 
woman in the city here. Her face 
was veiled, but the back methought 
was Rosamund — his paramour^ thy 
rival. I can feel for thee. 

Eleanor. Thou feel forme ! — para- 
mour — rival 1 King Louis had no 
paramours, and I loved him none the 
more. Henry had many, and I loved 
him none the less — now neither more 
nor less— not at all ; the cup's empty. 
I would she were but his paramour. 
for men tire of their fancies ; but I 
fear this one fancy hath taken root, 
and borne blossom too, and she, 
whom the King loves indeed, is a 
power in the State. Rival ! — ay, and 
when the King passes, there may 
come a crash and embroilment as in 
.Stephen's time ; and her children — 
canst thou not^that secret matter 
which would heat the King against 
thee (whispers liim and he starts). 
Nay, that is safe with me as with thy- 
self : but canst thou not — thou art 
drowned in debt— thou shalt have our 
love, our silence, and our gold- 





MAVD.-flage iss- 



ihou not- 

me from 

Fitzurs 



if thou light upon her — free 



Well, Madam, I have 
loved her in my time. 
Eh-auor. No, my bear, thou hast 
not. My Courts of Love would have 
held thee guiltless of love — the fine 
attractions and repulses, the delicacies, 
the subtleties. 

Fitznrsc. Madam, I loved accord- 
ing to the main purpose and intent of 

Eleanor. I warrant thee! thou 
wouldst hug thy Cupid till his ribs 
cracked — enough of this. Follow me 
this Rosamund day and night, whither- 
soever she goes ; track her, if thou 
canst, even into the King's lodging, 
that I may (clenches /lerjist) — may at 
. least have my cry against him and 
her, — and thou in thy way shouldst be 
jealous of the King, for thou in thv 
way didst once, what shall I call it, 
affect her thine own self. 

Fitzurse. Ay, but the young colt 
winced and whinnied and flung up 
her heels ; and then the King came 
honeying about her, and this Becket, 
her father's friend, like enough staved 
us from her. 

Eleanor. Us! 

Fi/ziirse. Yea, by the Blessed Vir- 
gin ! There were more than I buz- 
zing round the blossom — De Tracy — 
even that flint De Brito. 

Eleanor. Carry her off among 
you ; run in upon her and devour her, 
.one and all of you ; make her as hate- 
ful to herself and to the King, as she 
is to me. 

Fitzurse. I and all would be glad 
to wreak our spite on the rosefaced 
minion of the King, and bring her to 
the level of the dust, so that the 
King 

Eleanor. Let her eat it like the 
serpent, and be driven out of her par- 
adise. 

ACT L 





Chamber barely furtiisheit. Becket 
unrobing. Herbeut of Bosham 
and Servant. 

Sei-vant. .Shall I not help your 

lordship to your rest .' 
Becket. Friend, am I so much bet- 
ter than thyself 
That thou shouldst help me .' Thou 

art wearied out 
With this day's work,, get thee to 

thine own bed. 
Leave me with Herbert, friend. 

\Exit Servant. 
Help ine off, Herbert, with this — and 
this. 
Herbert. Was not the people's 
blessing as we past 
Heart-comfort and a balsam to thy 
blood ? 
Becket. The people know their 
Church a tower of strength, 
A bulwark again.st Throne and Bar- 
onage. 
Too heavv for me, this; off with it, 
HeVbert ! 
Herbert. Is it so much heavier 

than thy Chancellor's robe .> 
Becket. No; but the Chancellor's 
and the Archbishop's 
Together more than mortal man can 
bear. 
Herbert. Not heavier than thine 

armor at Thoulouse .' 
Becket. O Herbert, Herbert, in 
my chancellorship 
I more than once have gone against 
the Church. 
Herbert. To please the King ? 
Becket. Ay, and the King of 
kings. 
Or justice ; for it seem'd to me but 

just 
The Church should pay her scutage 

like the lords. 
But hast thou heard this cry of Gil- 
bert Foliot 
That I am not the man to be 

Primate, 
For Henry could not 





For Gilbert Fol 

man. 
Bccket. Am I the man? 

mother, ere she bore me, 
Dream'd that twelve stars fell gl 



held himself the 
My 



ing out of heaven 



Herbert. Ay, the fire, the light, 

The spirit of the twelve Apostles 
enter'd 

Into thy making. 

Becket. And when I was a child. 

The Virgin, in a vision of my 
sleep. 

Gave me the golden keys of Paradise. 
Dream, 

Or prophecy, that ? 
. Herbert. ' Well, dream and proph- 
ecy both. 
Becket. And when I was of Theo- 
bald's household, once — 

The good old man would sometimes 
have his jest — 

lie took his mitre off, and set it on 
me. 

And said, 'My young Archbishop — 
thou wouldst make 

A stately Archbishop ! ' Jest or 
prophecy there .' 
Herbert. Both, Thomas, both. 
Becket. Am I the man? That 
rang 

Within rav head last night, and when 
I slept 

Methought I stood in Canterbury 
Minster, 

And spake to the Lord God, and 
said, ' O Lord, 

I have been a lover of wines, and deli- 
cate meats. 

And secular splendors, and a favorer 

Of plavers, and a courtier, and a 
feeder 

Of dogs and hawks, and apes, and 
lions, and lyn.xes. 

Am / the man?' And the Lord 
answer'd me, 

' Thou art the man, and all the more 
the man.' 

And then I asked again, ' O Lord my 
God, 

Henry the King hath been my friend, 




And mine uplifter 
chosen me 




;his world, and 
hbishopric, be- 



For this thy gre; 

lieving 
That I should go against the Church 

with him, 
And I shall go against him with the 

Church, 
And I have said no word of this to 

him: 
Am / the man ? ' And the Lord 

answer'd me, 
' Thou art the man, and all the more 

the man.' 
And thereupon, methought, He drew 

toward me. 
And smote me down upon the Minster 

floor. 
I fell. 

Herbert. God make not thee, but • 

thy foes, fall. 
Becket. I fell. Why fall ? Why 

did He smite me'? What ? 
.Shall I fall off— to please the King 

once more ? 
Not fight — tho' somehow traitor to the 

King— 
My truest and mine utmost for the 

Church ? 
Herbert. Thou canst not fall that 

way. Let traitor be ; 
For how have fought thine utmost 

for the Church, 
Save from the throne of thine arch- 
bishopric ? 
And how been made Archbishop 

hadst thou told him, 
' T mean to fight mine utmost for thq 

Church, 
Against the King '? 
Becket. But dost thou think the 

King 
Forced mine election ? 

Herbert. I do think the King 

Was potent in the election, and why 

Why should not Heaven have so in- 
spired the King ? 
Be comforted. Thou art the man— be 

A mightier Anselm. 

B,Yket. I do believe the-, tiicn. I 
am tlie man. 





And yet I seem appall'd — on 

sudden 
At such an eagle-height I stai 



between me and 

■hen I 
Chan- 



The rift that i 

the King. 
I served our Theobald 

was with him ; 
I served King Henry v 

cellor ; 
I am his no more, and I must ser 

the Church. 
This Canterbury is only less th 

Rome, 
And all my doubts I fling from r 

Winnow and scatter all scruples 



lor, 
And all the heap'd experiences of 

life, 
I cast upon the side of Canterbury — 
Our holy mother Canterbury, who sits 
With tatter'd robes. Laics and bar- 
ons, thro' 
The random gifts of careless kings, 

have graspt 
Her livings, her advowsons, granges, 



: will make her 
And for these 



And goodly acres — w 

whole ; 
Not one rood lost. 

Royal customs. 
These ancient Royal customs — they 

are Royal, 
Not of the Church— and let them be 

anathema. 
And all that speak for them anathema. 
Herbt-rt. Thomas, thou art moved 

too much. 
Beckct. O Herbert, here 

I gash myself asunder from the King, 
Tho' leaving each, a wound; mine 

own, a grief 
To show the scar for ever — his, a 



o be heal'd. 

Enter RosA.MUND DE Clifford, y?)- 
ingfrom SiR Reginald Fitzursk. 
Drops her veil. 





Becket. Rosamund de Clifford ! 
Kosaniuiid. Save me, father, hide 
me — they follow me — and I must not 
be known. 

Becket. Pass in with Herbert there. 
\_Exeunt Rosamund and Her- 
bert by side door. 

Enter FiTZURSE. 

Fitznrse. The Archbishop I 
Becket. Ay ! what wouldst thou, 

Reginald ? 
Fitzurse. Why— why, my lord, I 

foUow'd— follow'd one 

Becket. And then what follows .> 

Let me follow thee. 
Fitzurse. It much imports me I^ 

should know her name. 
Becket. What her.' 
Fitzurse. The woman that I fol- 
low'd hither. 
Becket. Perhaps it may import her 

all as much 
Not to be known. 

Fitzurse. And what care I for 

that? 
Come, come, my lord Archbishop ; I 

saw that door 
Close even now upon the woman. 
Becket. Well ? 

Fitzurse [making for the door). 

Na\-, let me pass, my lord, for 

I must know. 
Becket. Back, man I 
Fitzurse. Then tell me who 

and what she is. 
Becket. Art thou so sure thou fol- 

lowedst anything > 
Go home, and sleep thy wine off, for 

thine eyes 
Glare stupid-wild with wine. 

Fitzurse (making to the door). I 

must and will. 
I care not for thy new archbishopric. 
Becket. Back, man, I tell thee ! 

What ! 
.Shall I forget my new archbishop- 



And smite thee with my crozier 

the skull .' 
'Fore God, I am a mightier n 





Fitznrse. It well befits thy new 
archbishopric 
To take the vagabond woman of the 

street 
Into thine arms ! 

Bfcket. O drunken ribaldry ! 

Out, beast ! out, bear! 
Fitziirse. I shall remember this. 
Becket. Do, and begone I 

\Ex,t Fitzurse. 

\Going to the door, sees De Tracy. 

Tracy, what dost thou here' ? 

De Tracy. IMv lord, I foUow'd 

Reginald Fitzurse. 
Becket. Follow him out ! 
De Tracy. I shall remember this 
Discourtesy. \E.xit. 

Becket. Do. These be those 
baron-brutes 
That havock'd all the land in 

.Stephen's day. 
Rosamund de Clifford. 

Re-enter Rosamund and Herbert. 

Rosamund. Here am I. 

Becket. Why here ? 

We gave thee to the charge of John 

of Salisbury, 
To pass thee to thy secret bower to- 
morrow. 
Wast thou not told to keep thyself 

from sight ? 
Rosamund. Poor bird of passage! 

so I was; but, father, 
They say that you are wise in winged 

things. 
And know the ways of Nature. Bar 

the bird 
From following the fled summer — a 

chink— he's out. 
Gone! And there stole into the city 

a breath 
Full of the meadows, and it minded 

me 
Of the sweet woods of Clifford, and 

the walks 
Where I could move at pleasure, and 

I thought 
Lo! I must out or die. 

Becket. Or out and die. 

.\nd what hast thou to do with this 

Fitzurse ? 





Rosamund. Nothing. He sued 

my hand. I shook at him. 

He found me once alone. Nay — nav 

Tell you: my father drove him and 

his friends, 
De Tracy and De Krito, from our 

castle. 
I was but fourteen and an April 

then. 
I heard him swear r( 
Becket. Why 

By self-exposure ? 

night? 
Make it so hard to save a moth from 



venge. 

will you cour 

flutter out 



y of 



Rosamund. I have save< 
'em. You catch 'em, 
Softly, and fling them out to the free 

They burn themselves wit/ttn-door. 

Becket. Our good John 

Must speed vou to vour bower at 

once.' The child 
Is there already. 

Rosamund ' Yes— the child— the 

child— 

O rare, a whole long day of open field. 

Becket. Ay, but you go disguised. 

Rosamund. O rare again ! 

We'll baffle them, I warrant. What 

shall it be .' 
I'll go as a nun. 

Becket. No, 

Rosamund. What, not good enough 
Even to play at nun .' 

Becket. Dan John with a nun. 

That Map, and these new railers at 

the Church 
M,ay plaister his clean name with 

scurrilous rhvmes ! 
No! 
Go like a monk, cowling and clouding 

up 
That fatal star, thy Beauty, from the 

squint 
Of lust and glare of malice. Good 
night ! good night ! 
Rosatnund. Father, I am so tender 
to all hardness ! 
Nav. father, first thv blessing. 
Becket. ' Wedded } 

Rosamund. Father! 





Bnket. Well, well ! I ask no 

more. Heaven bless thee ! 

hence ! 
Rosamund. O, holy father, when 

thou seest him next. 
Commend me to thy friend. 

Becket. What friend? 

Rosamund. The King. 

Beckt-t. Herbert, take out a score 

of armed men 
To guard this bird o£ passage to her 

cage; 
And watch Fitzurse, and if he follow 

thee, 
Make him thy prisoner. I am Chan- 
cellor yet. 
\Exeunt Herbert „«,/ Rosamund. 
Poor soul I poor soul ! 
My friend, the King ! . . . O thou 

Great Seal of Kngland, 
Given me by my dear friend the King 

of England — 
We long have wrought together, thou 

andl— 
Now must I send thee as a common 

friend 
To tell the King, my friend, I am 

against him. 
We are friends no more : he will say 

that, not I. 
The worldly bond between us is dis- 
solved. 
Not yet the love : can I be under 

him 
As Chancellor.' as Archbishop over 

him? 
Go therefo 

one 
That hath climb'd up to nobler com- 
pany. 
Not slighted — all but moan'd for: 

thou must go. 
I have not dishonor'd thee — I trust I 

have not ; 
Not mangled justice. May the hand 

that next 
Inherits thee be but as true to thee 
As mine hath been ! O, my dear 

friend, the King ! 
O brother ! — I may come to martyr- 



ike a friend slighted by 




nyself already. — 




Herherl [re-entering). My lord, the 
town is quiet, and the moon 

Divides the whole long street with 
light and shade. 

No footfall — no Fitzurse. We have 
seen her home. 
Beckel. The hog hath tumbled 
himself into some corner. 

Some ditch, to snore away his drunk- 
enness 

Into the sober headache, — Nature's 
moral 

Against excess. Let the Great Seal 
be sent 

Back to the King to-morrow. 
Herbert. Must that be ? 

The King may rend the bearer limb 
from limb. 

Think on it again. 

Becket. Against the moral excess 

No physical ache, but failure it may 
be 

Of all we aim'd at. John of Salis- 
bury 

Hath often laid a cold hand on my 
heats. 

And Herbert hath rebuked me even 

I will be wise and wary, not the sol- 
dier 

As Foliot swears it. — John, and out 
of breath ! 

Enter JoHN OF Salisbury. 
John of Salisbury. Thomas, thou 
wast not happy taking charge 
Of this wild Rosamund to please the 

King, 
Nor am I happy having charge of 



her- 



The included Danae h, 
Her 



escaped 
— where 



agam 
tower, and her Acrisiu 

to seek ? 
I have been about the citv. 

Becket. Thou 'wilt find hei 

Back in her lodging. Go with her— 

at once — 
To-night — my men will guard yuu u 

the gates. 
Be sweet to her, she has many ei;v 

mies. 




Bccket. 



Send the Great Seal by daybreak. 
Both, good night I 



Eleanor's Retainers and Beck- 
ET's Retainers fighting. Enter 
Eleanor and Becket Ji-om oppo- 
site streets. 

Eleanor. Peace, fools ! 

Becket. Peace, friends ! what idle 

brawl is this ? 
/detainer of Becket. They said— 
her Grace's people — thou wast 
found — 
Liars ! I shame to quote 'em — caught, 

my lord. 
With a wanton in thy lodging — Hell 
requite 'em! 
detainer of Eleanor. My liege, the 
Lord Fitzurse reported this 
In passing to the Castle even now. 
Retainer of Becket. And then they 
mock'd us and we fell upon 
'em. 
For we would live and die for thee, 

my lord, 
However kings and queens may 
frown on thee. 
Becket to liis Retainers. Go, go— no 

more of this ! 
Eleanor to her Retainers. Away !— 

{Exeunt Retainers) Fitzurse 

Becket. Nay, let him be. 
Eleanor. No, no, my Lord 

Archbishop, 
'Tis known you are midwinter to all 

But often in your chancellorship you 

served 
The follies of the King. 

Becket. No, not these follies ! 

Eleanor. My lord, Fitzurse beheld 

her in vour lodging. 
Becket. Whom ? 

Eleanor. Well— you know— the 
minion, Rosamund. 
ecket. He had good eves ! 
leanor. Then hidden in the 




He watch'd her pass 

Salisbury 

And heard her cry ' Where 

bower of mine ? " 

Becket. Good ears too ! 

Eleanor. You are going 

Castle, 

Will you subscribe the custon 

Becket. I le; 

Knowing how much vou re 

Holy Church, 
My liege, to you 
Eleanor. 




conjecture. 

And many a baron holds along with 

Are not so much at feud with Holv 

Church 
But we might take your side against 



the 



one slight 



So that you grant 
favor. 

Becket. What? 

Eleanor. A sight of that same 
chart which Henry gave 
you 
With the red line — ' her bower.' 
Becket. And to what end ? 

Eleanor. That Church must scorn 
herself whose fearful Priest 
Sits winking at the license of a 

king, 
Allho' we grant when kings are dan- 
gerous 
The Church must play into the hands 

of kings ; 
Look ! I would move this wanton 

from his sight 
And lake the Church's danger on 
myself. 
Becket. For which she should be 

dulv grateful. 
Eleanor. True ! 

Tho' she that binds the bond, herself 

should see 
That kings are faithful to their mar- 
riage vow. 
Becket. Ay, Madam, and queens 



Elea, 


or. 




A 


id quee 


IS also : 


What i 


your di 


ft 


' 






Beck. 


/. Mv 


ill 


tt 


s to the 


Castle, 


Wliere 


1 shall r 
«y King 


fiee 


t t 


le Bar 


{Exit. 





De Broc, De Tracy, De Brito, 
De Morville (/•assing). 

Eleanor. To the Castle ? 

De Broc. Ay ! 

Eleanor. Stir up the King, the 
Lords ! 
Set all on fire against hira! 

De Brito. Ay, good Madam ! 

Eleanor. Fool ! I will make thee 

hateful to thy King. 
Churl ! I will have thee frighted into 

France, 
And I shall live to trample on thy 

grave. 



SCENE III. — The Hall in 
Northampton Castle. 

On one side of the stage the doors of an 
inner Caiincil-chamber, half-open. 
At the bottom, the great doors of the 
Hall. Roger Archbishop of 
York, Foliot Bishop ok Lon- 
don, Hilary of Chichester, 
Bishop of Hereford, Richard 
DE Hastings (Grand Prior of 
Tejnplars), Philip de Elee.mosyna 
( The Pope^s Almoner)^ and others. 
De Broc, Fitzurse, De Brito, 
De Morville, De Tracy, and 
other Barons assembled— a table 
before them. JOHN OF OXFORD, 
President of the Council. 



Becket. Where is the King.' 
Roger of York. Gone hawking on 
the Nene, 
His heart so gall'd with thine ingrat- 
itude. 
He will net see thy face till thou hast 



I'hese ancient laws and customs of 

the realm, 
rhy sending back the Great Seal 

madden'd him, 
le all but pluck'd the bearer's eyes 

away. 





Take heed, lest he destroy thee 

utterly. 
Becket. Then shalt thou step into 

my place and sign. 
Roger of York. Didst thou not pro- 
mise Henry to obey 
These ancient laws and customs of 

the realm .' 
Becket. .Saving the honor of my 

order — ay. 
Customs, traditions, — clouds that 

come and go ; 
The customs of the Church are Peter's 

rock. 
Roger of York. Saving thine order ! 

But King Henry sware 
That, saving his King's kingship, he 

would grant thee 
The crown itself. Saving thine or- 
der, Thomas, 
Is black and white at once, and comes 

to nought. 
O bolster'd up with stubbornness and 

pride. 
Wilt thou destroy the Church in 

fighting for it. 
And bring us all to shame ? 

Becket. Roger .if V,.rU, 

When I and thou were yuuths in 

Theobald's house. 
Twice did thy malice and thy calum- 

Exile me from the face of Theoljald. 
Now I am Canterbury and thou art 

York. 
Roger of York. And is not York 

the peer of Canterbury .' 
Did not Great Gregory bid St. Austin 

here 
Found two archbishoprics, London 

and York ? 
Becket. What came of that.' The 

first archbishop fled. 
And York lay barren for a hundred 



Whv, bv this rule, Foliot mav cla 

the pall 
For London too. 

Foliot. And with good reason 
For London had a temple and 

When Canterbur 





Becket. 



Btckel. The pagan temple of a 

pagan Rome ! 
lie heathen priesthood of a heathen 
creed ! 
Thou goest beyond thyself in petu- 

lancy! 
Who made thee London ? Who, but 
Canterbury? 
Joint of Oxford. Peace, peace, my 
lords ! these customs are no 
longer 
As Canterbury calls them, wandering 

clouds, 
Hut by the King's command are writ- 
ten down, 
And by the King's command I, John 

of Oxford, 
The President of this Council, read 
them. 
Bcckct. Read ! 

John of Oxford (reads). 'All 
causes of advowsous and presenta- 
tions, whether between laymen or 
clerics, shall be tried in the King's 
court.' 

Becket. But that I cannot sign: 
for that would drag 
The cleric before the civil judgment- 



And on a 
John of Oxf 




John of Oxford. 'And when the 
vacancy is to be filled up, the King 
shall summon the chapter of that 
church to court, and the election 
shall be made in the Chapel Royal, 
with the consent of our lord the King, 
and by the advice of his Government.' 
Bedel. And that I cannot sign ? 
for that would make 
Our island-Church a schism from 

Christendom, 
And weight down all free choice be- 
neath the throne. 
Foliot. And was thine own election 
so canonical, 
Good father .> 

Becket. If it were not, Gilbert 
Foliot, 
I mean to cross the sea to France, 



My cic 



the Holy Fathe 



And bid him re-create me, Gilbert 
Foliot. 
Foliot. Nay; by another of these 



cleric be 



r wholly spiritual. 
■d. ' If any 
sed of felony, the Church shall 
not protect him; but he shall answer 
to the summons of the King's court 
to be tried therein.' 

Becket. And that I cannot sign. 
Is not the Church the visible Lord 

on earth .' 
Shall hands that do create the Lord 

be bound 
Kehind the back like laymen-crimi- 

The Lord be judged again by Pilate .' 

No I 
John of Oxford. ' When a bishop- 
ric falls vacant, the King, till another 
be appointed, shall receive the rev- 
enues thereof.' 

Becket. And that I cannot sign : 

Is the King's treasury 
A fit place for the monies of the 

Church, 
T!iat li? the p.itrimony of the poor ? 




tho 
Wilt not be suffer'd 

seas 
Without the license of our lor 
King. 
Becket. That, too, I cannot s 



cross the 
lord the 



De Broc, De Brito, De 
Tracy, Fitzurse, De IVIor- 
VILLE, start up — a clash of 
swords. 

Sign and obey ! 
Becket. My lords, is this a combat 
or a council .' 
Are ye my masters, or my lord the 

Ye make this clashing for no love o' 

the customs 
Or constitutions, or whate'er ye call 

them, 
But that there be among you those 

that hold 
Lands reft from Canterbury. 

De Broc. And mean to keep them. 
In spite of thee ! 
Lords (shouting). Sign, and obey 
the crown! 





Bicket. The cvovvii ? Shall I do 
less for Canterbury 

Than Henry for the crown? King 
Stephen gave 

Many of the crown lands to those 
that helpt him ; 

So did Matilda, the King's mother. 
Mark, 

When Henry came into his own 
again. 

Then he took back not only Stephen's 
gifts. 

But his own mother's, lest the crown 
should be 

Shorn of ancestral splendor. This 
did Henry. 

Shall I do less for mine own Canter- 
bury .' 

And thou, De Broc, that holdest Salt- 
wood Castle 

D,- Broc. And mean to hold it, 

Bccket. To have my life. 

De Broc. The King is quick to 

anger; if thou anger him. 

We wait but the King's word to 

strike thee dead. 

Becket. Strike, and I die the death 

of martyrdom ; 

Strike, and ye set these customs by 

my death 
Ringing their own death-knell thro' 
all the realm. 
Herbert. And I can tell you, lords, 
ye are all as like 
To lodge a fear in Thomas Becket's 

As find a hare*s form in a lion's 
cave. 
John of Oxford. Ay, sheathe your 
swords, ye will displease the 
King. 
De Broc. Why down then thou ! 
but an he come to Saltwood, 
By God's death, thou shalt stick him 
like -a calf! 

{Sheathing his s'^oord. 
Hilary. O my good lord, I do en- 
thee— sign. 
Save the King's honor here before his 

barons. 
He hath sworn that thou shouldst 
sign, and now but shuns 





The semblance of defeat; I have 

heard him say 
He means no more ; so if thou sign. 

That were but as the shadow of an 

Becket. 'Twould seem too like the 

substance, if I sign'd. 
Philip de Eleemosyna. My lord, 

thine ear I I have the ear of 

the Pope. 
As thou hast honor for the Pope our 

Have pity on him, sorely prest upon 
By the fierce Emperor and his Anti- 
pope. 
Thou knowest he was forced to fly to 

France ; 
He pray'd me to pray thee to pacify 
Thy King; for if thou go against thy 



The 



'"g. 



he likewise go against thy 
ig. 
thy King might join the An- 



Besides, thy King swor 



cardi- 



nals 



He meant no harm nor damage to the 

Church. 
Smoothe thou his pride — thy signing 

is but form ; 
Nay, and should harm come of it, it is 

the Pope 
Will be to blame— not thou. Over 

and over 
He told me thou shouldst pacify the 

King, 
Lest there be battle between Heaven 

and Earth, 
And Earth should get the better— for 

the time. 
Cannot the Pope absolve thee if thou 

sign ? 
Becket. Have I the orders of the 

Holy Father .? 
Philip de Eleemosyna. Orders, my 

lord — why, no ; for what atn 
The secret whisper of the Holy 

Father. 
Thou, that hast been a statesinan, 

couldst thou always 





Blurt thv free mind to the air ? ■ 
Bfckct. If Rome be feeble, then 

should I be firm. 
Philip. Take it not that way— balk 
not the Pope's will. 

When he hath shaken off the Em- 
peror, 

He heads the Church against the King 
with thee. 
Ruharil </e I/,istini;s (iiu-eliii-). 
Becket, I am the oldest of the 
Templars ; 

I knew thy father; he would be mine 
age 

Had he lived now; think of me as 
thy father ! 

Behold thy father kneeling to thee, 
Becket. 

Submit ; I promise thee on my salva- 
tion 

That thou wilt hear no 



B,Ytc/. 

Henry 



lore o the 

What ! 

hast thou 

talk'd' 

A,H>i/uT Ttmpli:r (i;Hecling). Father, 
I am the youngest of the Temp- 
lars, 
Look on me as I were thy bodily son, 
For, like a son, I lift mv hands to 
thee. 
PhiUp. Wilt thou hold out for 
ever, Thomas Becket .' 
Dost thou not hear "> 
Bcckd (signs). Why— there then- 
there — I sign, 
And swear to obey the customs. 

Foliot. Is it thy will. 

My lord Archbishop, that we too 
should sign ? 
Becket. O ay, by that canonical 
obedience 
Thou still hast owed thy father, Gil- 
bert Foliot. 
Foliot. Loyally and with good 

faith, my lord ArchbLshop .' 
Becket. O ay, with all that loyalty 
and good faith 
Thou still hast shown thv primate, 
Gilbert Foliot. 





etray'd the 



I'll have the paper back — blot out my 

name. 
Herbert. Too late, my lord : you 

see they are signing there. 
Becket. Fa'ise to myself — it is the 

will of God 
To break me, prove me nothing of 

myself ! 
This Almoner hath tasted Henry's 

gold. 
The cardinals have linger'd Henry's 

gold. 
.■\nd Rome is venal ev'n to rottenness. 
I see it, I see it. 

I am no soldier, as he said — at least 
No leader. Herbert, till I hear from 

the Pope 
I will suspend myself from all my 

If fast and prayer, the lacerating 

scourge 

Foliot (from the table). My lord 
.\rchbishop, thou hast yet to 

Becket. First, Foliot, let me see 
what I have sign'd. [Goes to 
the table. 

What, this ! and this !— what ! new and 
old together I 

Seal ? If a seraph shouted from the 

And bad me seal against the rights of 

the Church, 
I would anathematize him. I will not 

seal. [Exit with Herbert. 

Enter King Henry 
Henry. Where's Thomas .' hath he 

sign'd? show me the papers! 
Sign'd and not seal'd I How's that .> 
John of Oxford. He would not 

seal. 
And when he sign'd, his face was 

stormy-red — 
Shame, wrath, I know not what. He 

sat down there 
\nA dropt it in his hands, and then a 

paleness, 
Like the wan twilight after 

crept 
Up even to the tonsure, and he 

groan 'd. 





'False to myself! It is the will of 

God!' 
Henry. God's will be what it will, 

the man shall seal, 
Or I will seal his doom. My burgher's 

son — 
Nay, if I cannot break him as the pre- 
late, 
I'll crush him as the subject. Send 

for him back. 

ISits on his throtie. 
Karons and bishops of our realm of 

England, 
After the nineteen winters of King 

Stephen — 
A reign which was no reign, when 

none could sit 
Hy his own hearth in peace ; when 

murder common 
As nature's death, like Egypt's plague, 

had iiird 
All things with blood ; when every 

doorway blush'd, 
Dash'd red with that unhallow'd pass- 
over ; 
When every baron ground his blade 

in blood ; 
The household dough was kneaded 

up with blood ; 
The millwheel turn'd in blood ; the 

wholesome plow 
Lay rusting in the furrow's yellow 

weeds. 
Till famine dwarft the race — I came, 

your King ! 
Nor dwelt alone, like a soft lord of 

the East, 
In mine own hall, and sucking thro' 

fools' ears 
The flatteries of corruption — went 

abroad 
Thro' all my counties, spied my peo- 
ple's ways : 
Vea, heard the churl against the baron 

— yea, 
-And did him justice; sat in mine own 

courts 
fudging my judges, that had found a 

Kmg 
Who ranged confusions, made the 

twilight day, 
.\iid struck a shape from out the 

vague, and law 





From madness. And the event — our 
fallows till'd. 

Much corn, repeopled towns, a realm 
again. 

So far my course, albeit not glassy- 
smooth. 

Had prosper'd in the main, but sud- 
denly 

Jarr'd on this rock. A cleric violated 

The daughter of his host, and mur- 
der'd him. 

Bishops — York, London, Chichester, 



We 

haled 



nsured devil 



you 



But since your canon wi 
take 

Life for a life, ye but degraded him 

Where I had hang'd him. What doth 
hard murder care 

For degradation .' and that made me 
muse. 

Being bounden by my coronation 
oath 

To do men justice. Look to it, your 
own selves ! 

Say that a cleric niurder'd an arch- 
bishop, 

What could ye do .' Degrade, im- 
prison him — 

Not death for death. 
John of Oxford. But I, my liege, 
could swear. 

To death for death. 

Henry. And, looking thro' my 
reign, 

I found a hundred ghastly murders 
done 

By men, the scum and offal of the 
Church ; 

Then, glancing thro* the story of this 
realm, 

I came on certain wholesome usages, 

Lost in desuetude, of my grandsire's 
day, 

Good royal customs — had them writ- 
ten fair 

For John of O.xford here to read to 



John of Oxford. . And I can easily 
swear to these as being 
The King's will and God's will and 
justice; yet 





I could but read a part to-day, be- 
cause 

Fitznrse. Because my lord of Can- 
terbury 

De Tnuy.' Ay, 

This Lord of Canterbury 

Df Brito. As is his wont 

Too much of late whene'er your royal 
rights 

Are mooted in our councils 

Fitzuise. —made an uproar. 

Henry. And Becket had my bosom 
on all this ; 
If eyer man by bonds of grateful- 

I raised him from the puddle of the 

gutter, 
I made him porcelain from the clay 

of the city — 
Tiiought that I knew him, err'd thio' 

love of him. 
Hoped, were he chosen archbishop, 

Church and Crown, 
Two sisters gliding; in an equal 

dance, 
T\^'u rivers gently flowing side by 

side- 
But no ! 
The bird that moults sings the same 

song again. 
The snake that sloughs comes out a 

snake again. 
Snake — ay, but he that lookt a fang- 

iess one. 
Issues a venomous adder. 
For he. when having dofft the Chan- 
cellor's robe- 
Flung the Creat .Se.il of England in 

my face — 
Claim'd some of our crown lands for 

Canterbury — 
My comrade, boon companion, my 

co-reveller. 
The master of his master, the King's 

king.— 
Ood's eyes! I had meant to make 

him all but Ui.ig. 
Chancellor-Archbishop, he might well 

y'd 
All England under Henry, the young 

When I was hence. What did the 





False to himself, 1 
The will of God- 



Is he coming ? 
, lilcjseirgt-i- {i-titi':intfj. With a crowd 

of wor.shippers. 
And holds his cross before him thro' 

the crowd. 
As one that puts himself in sanctuary. 
Henry. His cross ! 
Roger of York. His cross! I'll 
front him, cross to cross. 

\_Exit Roger of York. 
Henry. His cross 1 it is the traitor 
that imputes 
Treachery to his King ! 
It is not safe for me to look upon him. 
Awav — with me ! 

\Goes in luilh his Barons to the 
Cmmcil-Chamber, the door of 
■which is left of en. 

Enter Becket, holding his cross of 
silver before him. The Bishops 
come round /mn. 

Hereford. The King will not abide 
thee with thy cross. 
Permit me, my good lord, to bear it 

for thee. 
Being thy chaplain. 
Becket. No : it must protect me. 
Herbert. As once he bore the 
standard of the Angles, 
So now he bears the standard of the 
angels. 
Foliot. I am the Dean of the prov- 
ince : let me bear it. 
Make not thy King a traitorous mur- 
derer. 
Becket. Did not your barons draw 
their swords against me .> 

Enter ROGER OF YoRK, with his 
cross, advancing to BeCKET. 
Becket. Wherefore dost thou pre- 
sume to bear thy cross. 
Against the solemn ordinance froiu 

Rome, 
Out of thy province .' 

Roger of York. Why d.ist tli..i, 
presnu.e. 





Arm"d with thy cross, to Co 

If Canterbury bring his cross to court 

Let York bear his to mate with Can- 
terbury. 
Foliot (seizing hold of Becket's 
cross). Nay, nay, my lord, thou 
must not brave the King. 

Xay. let me have it. I will have it ! 
Becket. Away I 

\_FiiHging Aim off. 
FoUot. He fasts, they say, this 
mitred Hercules ! 

He fast ! is that an arm of fast .' My 
lord, 

Hadst thou not sign'd, I had gone 
along with thee ; 

But thou the shepherd hast betray'd 
the sheep, 

And thou art perjured, and thou wilt 
not seal. 

As Chancellor thou wast against the 
Church, 

Now as Archbishop goest against the 
King ; 

For, like a fool, thou knowest no mid- 
dle way. 

Ay, ay ! but art thou .stronger than the 
King.> 
Becket. Strong — not in mine own 
self, but Heaven ; true 

To either function, holding it; and 
thou 

Fast, scourge thyself, and mortify 
thy flesh. 

Not s].irit— thou remainest Gilbert 



rldlv 



Foliot, 
iridiv follower of the 



Dng. 



I, bearing this great ensign, make it 
clear 

Under what Prince I fight. 
Folio!. My lord of York, 

Let us go into the Council, where our 
bishops 

And our great lords will sit in judg- 
ment on him. 
Becket. Sons sit in judgment on 
their father ! — then 

The spire of Holy Church may prick 
the graves— 

Her crypt among the stars. .Sign .' 
seal .' I promised 





The King to obev these 
yet written. 

Saving mine order; true too, that 
when written 

I sign'd them — being a fool, as Foliot 
call'd me. 

I hold not by my signing. Get ye 
hence. 

Tell what I say to the King. 

[Exeinit Hereford, Foliot, and 

other Bishops. 

Roger of York. The Church will 

hate thee. \E.xit. 

Becket. Serve my best friend and 

make him my worst foe ; 

Fight for the Church, and set the 
Church against me! 
Herbert. To be honest is to set all 
knaves against thee. 

Ah ! Thomas, excommunicate them 
all! 
Hereford {re-entering). I cannot 
brook the turmoil thou hast 
raised. 

I would, mv lord Thomas of Canter- 
bury', 

Thou wert plain Thomas and not 
Canterbury, 

Or that thou wouldst deliver Canter- 
bury 

To our King's hands again, and be at 
peace. 
Hilary (re-enteriHg). For hath not 
thine ambition set the Church 

This day between the hammer and the 
anvil — 

Fealty to the King, obedience to thy- 
self y 
Herbert. What say the bishops ? 
Hilary. Some have pleaded for 
him, 

But the King rages — most are with the 
King ; 

And some are reeds, that one time 
sway to the current, 

And to the wind another. But we 
hold 

Thou art foresworn ; and no fore- 
sworn .\rchbishop 

Shall helm the Church. We there- 
fore place ourselves 

Under the shield and safeguard of the 
Pope, 





And cite thee 

Pope, 
Ai.d 

Alt thou deaf? 



I hear you. [Clas/i of 
Dost thou hear those oth- 



Kogt-r of York (re-entering). 



IS eye 

and fas 



now so thick and fast, 
We fear that we may reave thee of 

thine own. 
Come on, come on ! it is not fit for us 
'I'o see the proud Archbishop muti- 
lated. 
Say that he blind thee and tear out thy 
tongue. 
Becket. So be it. He begins at 
top with me : 
Thev crucified St. Peter downward. 

R'o<;er of York. Nay, 

But for their sake who stagger be- 
twixt thine 
Appeal, and Henry's anger, yield. 
Btcket. Hence, Satan ! 

iExit Roger of York. 
Fitziirse (re-entering). My lord, 
the King demands three hun- 
dred marks, 
Due from his castles of Berkham- 

stead and Eye 
When thou thereof wast warden. 

Beeket. Tell the King 

I spent thrice that in fortifying his 
castles. 
De Tracy (re-entering). My lord, 
the King demands seven hun- 
dred marks. 
Lent at the siege of Thoulouse by 

the King. 
Beeket. I led seven hundred 

knights and fought his wars. 
De Brito (re-entering). My lord, 
the King demands five hundred 
marks, 
Advanced thee at his instance by the 

Jews, 
For which the King was bound secu- 
rity. 
Beeket. I thought it was a gift ; I 
thought it was a gift. 





Enter LoRD LEICESTER (follouied 

l\v Barons and Bishops). 
My lord, I come unwillingly. The 
King 
Demands a strict account of all those 

revenues 
From all the vacant sees and abba- 
cies. 
Which came into thy hands when 
Chancellor. 
Beeket. How much might that 

amount to, my lord Leicester ? 
Leicester. Some thirty — forty thou- 
sand silver marks. 
Beeket. Are these your customs.' 
O my good lotd Leicester, 
The King and I were brothers. All I 

had 
I lavish'd for the glory of the King; 
I shone from him, for him, his glory, 



;lory of the 



Reflection : now the 
Church 

Hath swallow'd up the glory of the 
King ; 

I am his no more, but hers. Grant 
me one day 

To ponder these demands. 
Leicester. Hear first thy sentence ! 

The King and all his lords 

Beeket. Son, first hear me ! 

Leicester. Nay, nay, canst thou, 

that holdest thine estates 

In fee and barony of the King, de- 
cline 

The judgment of the King } 

Beeket. The King! I hold 

Nothing in fee and barony of the 
King. 

Whatever the Church owns — she 
holds it in 

Free and perpetual alms, unsubject 
to 

One earthly sceptre. 
Leicester. Nay, but hear thy judg- 
ment. 

The King and all his barons 

Beeket. Judgment! Barons! 

Who but the bridegroom dares to 
judge the bride. 

Or he the bridegroom may appoint .' 
Not he 





Would throne me in the great Arch- 
bishopric: 

And I, that knew mine own infirmity. 

For the King's pleasure rather than 
God's cause 

Took it upon me— err'd thro' love 
of him. 

Now therefore God from me with- 
draws Himself, 

And the King too. 

What ! forty thousand marks ! 

Why thou, the Ki'ng, the Pope, the 
Saints, the world, 

Know that when made Archbishop I 
was freed. 

Before the Prince and chief Justiciary, 

From every bond and debt and obli- 



gati. 



Chancellor. 

Hear me, son. 

As gold 
Outvalues dross, light darkness, Abel 

Cain, 
The soul the body, and the Church 

the Throne, 
I charge thee, upon pain of mine 



athe 



That thou obey, no 



God in 



Rather than Henry. I refuse to stand 

By the King's censure, make my cry 
to the Pope, 

By whom I will be judged ; refer my- 
self. 

The King, these customs, all the 
Church, to him. 

And under his authority — I depart. 

[Leicester looks at him dotiblingly. 
Am I a prisoner ? 

Leicester. By St. Lazarus, no ! 

I am confounded by thee. Go in 

peace. 

Dc Broc. In peace now — but after. 

Take that for earnest. 

\_Fliiigs a bom at him from the 





De Bi-ito, Fitzurse, De Tracy, and 
others (jHH^iag zvisps of rushes). Ay, 
go in peace, caitiff, caitiff! .And that 
too, perjurer! [irelnte — and that, turn- 



h\c/.-ct. .Mannerless wolves! 

iTar,u„oa,uiJae:Hglhem. 
Herbert. Enough, my lord, 

enough ! 
Bceket. Barons of England and of 
Normandy, 
When what ye shake at doth but 

seem to fly, 
True test of co%vard, ye follow with a 

veil. 
But I that threw the mightiest knight 
of France, 

Sir Engelram de Trie, 

Herliert. Enough, my lord. 

Becket. More than enough. I 
play the fool again. 

Enter Her.-vld. 

Herald. The King commands you, 
upon pain of death. 
That none should wrong or injure 
your Archbishop. 
Foliot. Deal gently with the young 
man Absalom. 
{Great doors of the Hall at the 
back open, and discover a crowd. 
They shout : 
Blessed is he that cometh in the name 
of the Lord ! 



A banquet on the Tables. 
Enter Becket. Becket's Retain- 



i.v;' Retainer. Do thou speak first. 

2nd Retainer. Nay, thou I Nay, 

thou : Hast not thou drawn the short 

1st Retainer. My lord Archbishop, 
wilt thou permit us 

Becket. To speak without stam- 
mering and like a free man ? Ay. 





My lord, permit 



\st ReUi. 
then to leave thy s 

Becket When ? 

\st Relainer. Now. 

Becket. To-night ? 

\st Retainer. To-night, my lord. 

Becket. And why ? 

\st Retainer. My lord, we leave 
thee not without tears. 

Becket. Tears .' Why not stay 
with me then .' 

\st Retainer. My lord, we cannot 
yield thee an answer altogether to thy 
satisfaction. 

Becket. I warrant you, or your own 
either. Shall I find you one.' The 
King hath frowned upon me. 

^st Retainer. That is not altogether 
our answer, mv lord. 

Becket. No'; yet all but all. Go, 
go ! Ye have eaten of my dish and 
drunken of my cup for a dozen 
vears. 

\st Retainer. And so we have. We 
mean thee no wrong. Wilt thou not 
sav, ' God bless you,' ere we e;o ? 

Becket. God 'bless you all ! God 
redden your pale blood ! But mine is 
human-red ; and when ye shall hear it 
is poured out upon earth, and see it 
mounting to Heaven, my God bless 
you, that seems sweet to you now, will 
blast and blind you like a curse. 

1st Retainer. ' We hope not, my 
lord. Our humblest thanks for your 
blessing. Farewell ! 

[Exeunt Retainers. 

Becket. Farewell, friends ! fare- 
well, swallows ! I wrong the bird ; 
she leaves only the nest she built, 
they leave the 'builder. Why ? Am 
I to be murdered to-night ? 

[Knocking at the door. 

Attendant. Here is a missive left 
at the gate by one from the castle. 

Becket. Cornwall's hand or Leices- 
ter's : tney write marvellously alike. 

[Reading. 

' Fly at once to France, to King 

Louis of France: thtre he those 

about our King who would have thy 
blood." 





Was not my lord of Leicester bid- 
den to our supper.' 

.Attendant. Ay, my lord, and divers 
other earls and barons. But the hour 
is past, and our brother. Master Cook, 
he makes moan that all be a-getting 
cold. 

Becket. And I make my moan 
along with him. Cold after warm, 
winter after summer, and the golden 
leaves, these earls and barons, that 
clung to me, frosted off me by the 
first cold frown of the King. Cold, 
but look how the table steams, like a 
heathen altar; nay, like the altar at 
Jerusalen). Shall God's good gifts 
be wasted .' None of them here ! 
Call in the poor from the streets, and 
let them feast. 

Herbert. That is the parable of 
our blessed Lord. 

Becket. .\nd why should not the 
parable of our blessed Lord be acted 
again.' Call in the poor! The 
Church is ever at variance with the 
kings, and ever at one with the poor. 
I marked a group of lazars in the 
marketplace — half-rag, half-sore — beg- 
gars, poor rogues (Heaven bless 'em) 
who never saw nor dreamed of such 
a banquet. I will amaze them. Call 
them in, I say. They shall hencefor- 
ward be my earls and barons — our 
lords and masters in Christ Jesus. 

[Exit Herbert. 

If the King hold his purpose, I am 
myself a beggar. Forty thousand 
marks ! forty thousand devils — and 
these craven bishops ! 



A Poor Man (entering) witli his dog. 

My lord ."Archbishop, may I come 
in with my poor friend, my dog ? The 
King's verdurer caught him a-hunting 
in the forest, and cut off his paws. 
The dog followed his calling, my lord. 
I ha' carried him ever so many miles 
in my arms, and he licks my face and 
moans and cries out against the King. 

Becket. Better thy dog than thee. 
The King's courts would use thee 
worse than thy dog— they are too 





bloody. Were the Church king, it 
would be otherwise. Poor beast ! 
beast ! set him down. I will 
bind up his wounds with my napkin. 
('.)\e him a bone, give him a bone! 
Who misuses a dog would misuse a 
cliild — they cannot speal< for them- 
selves. Past help ! his paws are past 
help. God help him ! 

£i:/e?- Ihe Begg.\RS (and si\it them- 
selves at the Tables). Becket and 
Herbert wait upon them. 

1st Beggar. Swine, sheep, ox — 
here's a French supper. When 
thieves fall out, honest men 

2nd Beggar. Is the Archbishop a 
thief who gives thee thy supper ? 

IJ.' Beggar. Well, then, how does 
it go ? When honest men fall out, 
thieves — no, it can't be that. 

2nd Beggar. Who stole the widow's 
one sitting hen o' Sunday, when she 

1st Beggar. Come, coine ! thou 
hadst thv share on her. Sitting hen! 
t)ur Lord Becket's our great sittiiig- 
hen cock, and we shouldn't ha' been 
sitting here if the barons and bishops 
hadn't been a-siiting on the Arch- 
bishop. 

Becket. Ay, the princes sat in judg- 
ment against me. and the Lord hath 
prepared your \.ib\t— Sederunt Jriiiei- 
/es, ederunt f-au feres. 

A Voice. Becket, beware of the 
knife ! 

Beeket. Who spoke ? 

yd Beggar. Nobody, my lord. 
What's that, my lord ? 

Beeket. Venison. 

yd Beggar. Venison ? 

Beiket. Buck ; deer, as you call it. 

yd />' „';■(;>-. King's meat I By the 
Liiid, won't we pray for vour lord- 
ship! 

Beeket. And, my children, your 
prayers will do more' for me in the' day 
of peril that dawns darkly and drearily 
over the house of God — yea, and in 
the day of judgment also, than the 
swords of the craven sycophants 




would have done had they remained 
true to me whose bread they have 
partaken. I must leave you to your 
banquet. Feed, feast, and be merry. 
Herbert, for the sake of the Church 
itself, if not for my own, I must fly to 
France to-night. Come with me. 

\_Exit with Herbert. 

yd Beggar. Here — all of vou— 
my lord's health {they drink). 'Well 
— if that isn't goodly wine 

\st Beggar. Then there isn't a 
goodly wench to serve him with it : 
they were fighting for her to-day in 
the street. 

yd Beggar. Peace ! 

1st Beggar. The black sheep baaecl 
to the miller's ewe-lamb. 

The miller's away for to-night. 
Black sheep, quoth she, too black a 
sin for me. 

And what said the black sheep, my 
masters } 

We can make a black sin white. 

yd Beggar. Peace ! 

1st Beggar. ' Ewe lamb, ewe lamb, 
I am here by the dam.' 

But the miller came home that 
night, 
And so dusted his back vi'ith the meal 
in his sack. 

That he made the black sheep 
white. 

yd Beggar. Be we not of the fam- 
ily ? be we not a-supping with the 
head of the family .' be we not in my 
lord's own refractory.' Out from 
among us ; thou art our black sheep. 

Enter the four KNIGHTS. 

Fitznne. Sheep, said he? And 
sheep without the shepherd, too. 
Where is my lord Archbishop.' Thou 
the lustiest and lousiest of this Cain's 
brotherhood, answer. 

yd Beggar. With Cain's answer, 
my lord. Am I his keeper ? Thou 
shouldst call him Cain, not ine. 

Fitzurse. So I do, for he would 
murder his brother the State. 

yd Beggar (rising and advancing). 
No, mv lord ; but because the Lord 





hath set his mark upon him that no 
should murder him. 

Fitatirse. Where is he ? where is lie ? 

yd Bcggay. With Cain belilce, in 
the land of Nod, or in the land of 
France for aught I know. 

Fitzurse. France ! Ha ! De Mor- 
ville, Tracy, Brito— fled is he .' Cross 
swords all of you ! swear to follow 
him ! Remember the Queen ! 

[ The four Knights cross Iheir swords. 

De Brito. They mock us ; he is 
here. 
\_All t/w Beggars rise and advance 
upon them. 

Fitzurse. Come, you filthy knaves, 
let us pass. 

yd Beggar. Nay, my lord, let us 
pass. We be a-going home after our 
supper in all humbleness, my lord; 
for the Archbishop loves humbleness, 
my lord ; and though we be fifty to 
four, we daren't fight you with our 
crutches, my lord. There now, if thou 
hast not laid hands upon me ! and my 
fellows know that I am all one scale 
like a fish. I pray God I haven't 
given thee my leprosy, my lord. 

[Fitzurse shrinks from him and 
another presses upon De Brito. 

Dc Brito. Away, dog ! 

ifth Beggar. And I was bit by a 
mad dog o' Friday, an' I be half dog 
already by this token, that tho' I can 
drink wine I cannot bide water, my 
lord; and I want to bite, I want to 
bite, and they do say the very breath 
catches. 

De Brito. Insolent clown. Shall I 
smite him with the edge of the sword ? 

De Morville. No, nor with the flat 
of it either. Smite the shepherd and 
the sheep are scattered. Smite the 
sheejj and the shepherd will e.xcom- 
municate thee. 

De Brito. Yet my fingers itch to 
beat him into nothing. 

5?^ Beggar. So do mine, my lord. 
I was born with it, and sulphur won't 
bring it out o' me. But for all that 
the Archbishop washed my feet o' 
Tuesday. H< •■' 

6/// Beggar. And see here. 





this rag tro tin 

It's humbling- 

natur'. Wilt thou smel 

for the Archbishop likes the smell on 

it, my lord; for I be his lord and 

master i' Christ, my lord. 

De Morville. Faugh 1 we shall all 
be poisoned. Let us go. 

[ They draw back, 'Seggaxs following. 

jth Beggar. My lord, I ha' three 
sisters a-dying at home o' the sweating 
sickness. They be dead while I be a- 
supping. 

Sth Beggar. And I ha' nine darters 
i' the spital that be dead ten times 
o'er i' one day wi' the putrid fever; 
and I bring the taint on it along wi' 
me, for the Archbishop likes it, my 
lord. 

[Pressing upon the Knights till 
they disappear thro' the door. 

yd Beggar. Crutches, and itches, 
and leprosies, and ulcers, and gan- 
grenes, and running sores, praise ye 
the Lord, for to-night ye have saved 
our Archbishop ! 

\st Beggar. I'll go back again. I 
hain't half done yet. 

Herbert of Bosham (entering). My 
friends, the Archbishop bids you good 
night. He hath retired to rest, and 
being in great jeopardy of his life, he 
hath made his bed between the altars, 
from whence he sends me to bid you 
this night pray for him who hath fed 
you in the wilderness. 

yd Beggar. So we will — so we 
will, I warrant thee. Becket shall be 
king, and the Holy Father shall be 
king, and the world shall live by the 
King's venison and the bread o' the 
Lord, and there shall be no more poor 
for ever. Hurrah ! Vive le Roy I 
That's the English of it. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I.— Ros.\mund's Bower. 

A Garden of Flowers. In the midst ,. 
bank ofwildjlinvers with a bench be 
fore it. 





hear in the ])iiie overhead ? 
2. No ; but the voice of the deep as it 
hollows the cliffs of the land. 

1. Is there a voice coming up with 

the voice of the deep from the 
strand, 
One coming up with a song in the 
flush of the glimmering red ? 

2. Love that is born of the deep com- 

ing up with the sun from the 
sea. 

1. Love that can shape or can shatter 

a life till the life shall have fled.' 

2. Nay, let us welcome him, Love 

that can lift up a life from the 
dead. 

I. Keep him away from the lone little 
isle. Let us be, let us be. 

2- Nay, let him make it his own, let 
him reign in it — he, it is he. 
Love that is born of the deep com- 
ing up with the sun from the 



Enter Henry and Rosamund. 

Rosamund. Be friends with hi 
again — I do beseech thee. 



HenA 


With Kecket ? 


I 


have but 




e hour 


with thee 


_ 




ceptre 


md cr 


Dzier clash 


"g 


and the 



:flee 



Grappling the crown — and whe 
from this 

P'or a gasp of freer air, a breathing- 
while 

To rest upon thy bosom and forget 

Why thou, mv bird, thou pipest 

liecket, Becket— 
Yea, thou my golden dream of Love's 

own bower, 
Must be the nightmare breaking on 

my peace » 

With ' Becket.' 

Rosamund. O my life's life, not to 



My 




Look rather thou all-royal as when 

first 
I met thee. 

Henry. Where was that .' 
Rosamund. Forgetting that 

Forgets me too. 

Henry. Nay, I remember it well. 
There on the moors. 

Rosamund. And in a narrow path. 
A plover flew before thee. Then I 

saw 
Thy high black steed among the 

flaming furze. 
Like sudden night in the main glare of 

day. 
And from that height something was 

said to me 
I knew not what. 

Henry- 1 ask'd the way. 

Rosamund. I think so. 

So I lost mine. 
Henry. Thou wast too shamed to 



my 



Well, 



-I have 



no more of lih, 

sent his folk, 
His kin, all his belongings, overseas ; 
Age, orphans, and babe-breasting 

mothers — all 
By hundreds to him — there to beg, 

starve, die- 
So that the fool King Louis feed 

them not. 
The man shall feel that I can strike 

him yet. 
Rosamund. Babes, orphans, moth- 
ers ! is that royal, Sire ? 
Henry. And I have been as royal 

with the Church. 
He shelter'd in the Abbey of Pon- 

tigny. 
There wore his time studying the 



law 



Toi 



since he 



>rk It against n 
cursed 
My friends at Veselay, I have let 
them know. 





That if they keep him longer as their 

gi 
I scatter all their cowls to all the 
hells. 
RosaiHund. And is that altogether 

royal ? 
Henry. Traitres>! 

Rosamund. A faithful traitress to 

thy royal fame. 
HLitry. Fame ! what care I for 
fame ? Spite, ignorance, envy. 
Yea, honesty too, paint her what way 



the 



vill. 



Fame of to-day is infamy to-morrow ; 
Infamy of to-day is fame to-morrow : 
And round and round again. What 

matters ? Royal — 
I mean to leave the royalty of ray 

crown 
Unlessen'd to mine heirs. 

Rosamund. Still — thy fame too : 
I say that should be royal. 

Henry. And I say, 

I care not for thy saying. 

Rosamund. And I say, 

I care not for thy saying. A greater 

King 
Than thou art. Love, who cares not 

for the word. 
Makes ' care not ' — care. There have 
I spoken true ? 
Henry. Care dwell with me for 

To care for thee as ever ! 

Rosamund. No need ! no need ! . . 
There is a bench. Come, wilt thou sit? 

. . . My bank 

Of wild-flowers [//«• j//,.]. At thy feet I 

[She s,ls at 'us feet. 

Henry. I bad them clear 

A royal pleasaunce for thee, in the 

wood, 
Not leave these countryfolk at 

court. 
Rosamund. I brought them 

In from the wood, and set them here. 

I love them 
More than the garden flowers, that 

seem at most 
Sweet guests, or foreign cousins, not 

half speaking 
The language of the land. I love 

th'em too. 




Yes. But, my liege, I am si 
the roses — 

Shame fall on those who gave it a 
dog's name — 

This wild one (piekiug a hriar-rose] — 
nav, I shall not prick my- 
self— 

Is sweetest. Do but smell ! 
Henry. Thou rose of the world ! 

Thou rose of all the roses I {Mutter- 
ing. 

I am not worthy of her — this beast- 
body 

That God has plunged my soul in — I, 
that taking 

The Fiend's advantage of a throne, 
so long 

Have wander'd among women, — a foul 

Thro' fever-breeding levels, — at her 

side. 
Among these happy dales, run clearer, 

drop 
The mud I carried, like yon brook, 

and glass 
The faithful face of heaven— 

\Looking at her, and unconsciously 

aloud, — thine! thine! 

Rosamund. I know it. 

Henry {muttering). Not hers. We 

have but one bond, her hate of 

fletket. 

Rosamund (half hca--ing). Nay I 

nay! what nrf tliou muttering.'' 

Henry (viutteritig). A sane and nat- 
ural loathing for a soul 

Purer, and truer and nobler than her- 
self ; 

And mine a bitterer illegitimate hate, 

A bastard hate born of a former 
love. 
Rosamund. My fault to name him! 
O let the hand of one 

To whom thy voice is all her music, 

But for a breath. 

[Puts her hand before his lips. 

Speak only of thy love. 

Why there — like some loud beg'gar at 

thy gate — 
The happy boldness of this hand hath 





Love's alms, thy kiss (looking at her 

//(jW)— tjacred ! I'll kiss it too. 

IKissingU. 

There ! wherefore dost thou so peruse 

it? Nay, 
There may be crosses in mv line of 
life. 
Henry. Not half her hand — no 
hand to mate with her. 
If it should come to that. 
Rosamund. With her } with whom? 
Henry. Life on the hand is naked 
gypsy-stuff ; 
Life on the face, the brows — clear 

innocence ! 
Vein'd marble — not a furrow yet — and 
hers {Miitfering. 

Crost and recrost, a venomous spider's 

web 

Jiosamimd [springing up). Out of 
the cloud, my Sun — out of the 
eclipse 
Narrowing my golden hour ! 

Henry. O Rosamund, 

I would be true — would tell thee all — 

and something 
I had to sav — I love thee none the 

less— 
Which will so vex thee. 

Rosamund. Something against me? 
Henry. No, no, against myself. 
Rosamund. I will not hear it. 

Come, come, mine hour ! I bargain 

for mine hour. 
I'll call thee little Geoffrey. 
Henry. Call him ! 

Rosamund. Geoffrey I 

Enter Geoffrey. 
Henry. How the boy grows ! 
Rosamund. Ay, and his brows are 
thine ; 
The mouth is only Clifford, my dear 
father. 
Geoffrey. My liege, what hast thou 

brought me ? 
Henry. Venal imp I 

What say'st thou to the Chancellor- 
ship of England ? 
Geoffrey. O yes, my liege. 
Henrv. ' O vcs, my liege ! ' He 





As if it were a cake of i 

Dost thou know, 
to be Chancellor of Engl.md ? 

Geoffrey. Something good, or thou 
wouldst not give it me. 

Henry. It is, my boy, to side with 
the king when Chancellor, and then 
to be made Archbishop and go against 
the King who made him, and turn the 
world upside down. 

Geoffrey. I won't have it then. 
Nay, but give it me, and I promise 
thee not to turn the world upside 
down. 

He7iry [giving him a ball). Here 
is a ball, my boy. thy world, to turn 
anyway and play with as thou wilt — 
which is more than I can d(i with mine. 
Go try it, play. \E.-eit Geoffrey. 

A pretty lusty bov. 

Rosamund. ' So like to thee ; 

Like to be liker. 

Henry. Not in my chin, I hope ! 
That threatens double. 

Rosamund. Thou art manlike 

perfect. 

Henry. Ay, ay, no doubt ; and 
were I humpt behind, 
Thou'dst say as much — the goodly 

way of women 
Who love, for which I love them. 

May God grant 
No ill befall or him or thee when I 
Am gone. 

Rosamund. Is he thy enemy. 

Henry. He ? who ? ay ! 

Rosamund. Thine enemy knows 
the secret of my bower. 

Henry. And I could tear him 

asunder with wild horses 

Before he would betray it. Nay — no 

fear ! 
More like is he to excommunicate 

Rosamund. And I would creep, 

crawl over knife-edge flint 

Barefoot, a hundred leagues, to stay 

his hand 
Before he flash'd the bolt. 

Henry. And when he flash'd it 

Shrink from me, like a daughter of 
the Church. 
Rosamund. Av, but he will not. 





■:;■ Rosamund mid' i-iss- 
. Mv brave-hearted 
Hose ! 
Hath he ever been to see thee ? 

Kosamand. Here ? not he. 

And it is so lonely here — no confessor. 

Henry. Thou'shalt confess all thy 

Rosamuitd. besides, we came away 
in such a heat, 
I brought not ev'n mv crucifix. 

Henyy. ' Take this. 

{Gii'ini; her the Crucifix which 
Eleanor -,/r.. him. 
Rosamund. <) beautiful! Mav I 



And 
Hi 
T( 
R. 



Nay— r must go; but 
when thoi;i layest thy lip 
thi^i, remembering One who died 
for ihee, 

for 



nber 



vho 



Out there in France ; for I must 
hence to brave 

The Pope, King Louis, and this tur- 
bulent priest. 
Rosamund [hi!c\din_i;). O by thv 
love for me, all mine for thee,' 

Fling not thv soul into the fiames of 
hell: ■ 

I kneel to thee— be friends with him 
again. 
Henry. Look, look ! if little Geof- 
frey have not tost 

His ball into the brook I makes after 




<iund. Geoffrey ! Geoffrey ! 

[E.xciinr. 



SCENE n. — MoNTMIRAIL. 



The Meeting of the Kings.^ John 
OF Oxford and Henry. Cro'Md 
in the disia7ice. 

John of Oxford. "S'ou have not 
crown'd young Henry yet, my 
liege ? 

Heilrv. Crown'd ! by God's eyes, 



I spoke of late to 
As if he wore the 



ve him crown'd. 
the boy, he an- 



Dld 



that 



the mother 
Would make him play his kingship 
against mine. 
fohn of Oxford. Not have him 

crown'd ? 
Henry. Not now — not vet ! and 
Becket— 
Becket should crown him were he 



n)'d 



But, 
This 



ould be 



d of our 
wounded 
uur feed- 



Canterbury, like 

deer. 
Has fled our presence i 

ing-grounds. 
John of Oxford. Cannot a smooth 

tongue lick him whole again 
To serve your will ? 
Henrv.' He hates mv will, not me. 
John of Oxford. There's York, mv 

liege. 
Henry. But England scarce would 

hold 
Young Henry king, if only crown'd 

by Yofk, 
And that would stilt up York to 

twice himself. 
There is a movement yonder in the 

crowd — 
See if our ))ious — what shall I call 

him, John .'— 
Husband-in-law, our smooth-shorn 

suzerain, 





e yet within tfie firid. 
Jolm of Oxford. I 



lEx 



Mince and go back ! his politic Holi- 
ness 

Hath all but climb-d the Roman 
perch again. 

And we shall hear him presently with 
clapt wing 

Trow over Barbarossa — at last tongue- 
free 

1 ii blast my realms with excommuni- 

And interdict. I must patch up a 
peace — 

A piece in this long-tugged-at, thread- 
bare-worn 

Quarrel of Crown and Church — to 
rend again. 

His Holiness cannot steer straight 
thro' shoals, 

Nor I. The citizen's heir hath con- 
quer'd me 

For the moment. So we make our 
peace with him. 



Enter Louis. 
Brother of France, what shall be 

done with Becket .^ 
Louis. The holy Thomas I Brother, 

you have traffick'd 
Between the Emperor and the Pope, 

between 
The Pope and Antipope — a perilous 

game 
For men to play with God. 

Henry. Ay, ay, good brother, 

They call you the Monk-King. 

Louis. Who calls me? she 

That was my wife, now yours .' Vou 

have her Duch\-, 
The point you aim'd at, and i)ray God 

she prove 
True wife to you. Vou have had the 

better of us 
In secular matteri 
Henry. Com 

brother. 
You did your bes 

her Duchy. 
Only the golden Leopard printed in 




confess, good 
r worst to keep 




Such hold-fast claws that you perforce 

again 
Shrank into France. Tut, tut ! did 

we convene 
This conference but to babble of our 

wives ? 
They are plagues enough in-door. 

Louis. We fought in the East, 

And felt the sun of Antioch scald our 

mail, 
And push'd our lances into Saracen 

hearts. 
We never hounded on the State at 

home 
To spoil the Church. 

Henry. How should you see this 

rightly? 
Louis. Well, well, no more! T 

am proud of my ' Monk-King,' 
Whoever named me and, brother, 

Holy Church 
May rock, but will not wreck, nor our 

Archbishop 
Stagger on the slope decks tor any 

Blown by the breath of kings. We 

do forgive you 
For aught you wrought against us. 

[Henry holds up his hand. 

Nay, I ])iay you. 

Do not defend yourself. You will do 



luch 



To rake 



At 



all 



dying heats 



but 



of Canti 



The wrongs you did hii 

Reseat him on his thrc 

bury, 
Be, both, the friends you were. 

Henry. The friends we were ! 

Co-mates we were, and had our sport 

together. 
Cokings we were, and made the laws 

together. 
The world had never .seen the like 

before. 
You are too cold to know the fashion 

of it. 
Well, well, we will be gentle with 

him, gracious — 
Most gracious. 





Enter BecKKT, afUr him, John OF 
Oxford, Roger of York, Gil- 
bert FoLioT, De Broc, Fitz- 

URSE, <'/(•. 

Only that the rift he made 
May dose between us, here I am 

wholly king. 
The word should come from him. 
Beckct {kmelhtg). Then, my dear 
liege, 
I here deliver all this controversy 
Into your royal hands. 

Henry. Ah, Thomas, Thomas, 

Thou art thyself again, Thomas again. 

Becket [rising). Saving God's 

honor! 
Henry- Out upon thee, man ! 

.Saving the Devil's honor, his yes and 

Knights, bishops, earls, this London 
spawn — by Mahound, 

I had sooner have been born a Mussul- 
man — 

Less clashing with their priests — 

I am half-way down the slope — will 
no man stay me .' 

I dash myself to pieces — I stav mv- 
self- - ^ 

Puff — it is gone. You, Master 
Becket, you 

That owe to nie your power over 

Nay, nay — 

Brother of France, you have taken, 

cherish'd him 
Who thief-like fied from his own 

■church by night. 
No man_ pursuing. I would have had 

him back. 
Take heed he do not turn and rend 

you too : 
For whatsoever may displease him — 

that 
Is clean against God's honor — a shift, 

a trick 
Whereby to challenge, face nie out of 

My regal rights. Yet, yet— that none 

may dream 
I go against God's honor — ay, or I 

himself 
In any reason, choose | 





heads from 



A hundred of the wi 

England, ' 
A hundred, too, from Normandy and 

Anjou: 
Let these decide on what was custom- 

In olden 'days, and all the Church of 

France 
Decide on their decision, I am con- 
tent. 
More, what the mightiest and the 

holiest 
Of all his predecessors may have 

done 
Ev'n to the least and meanest of my 

own, 
Let him do the same to me — I am 

content. 
Louis. Ay, ay ! the King humbles 

himself enough. 
Becket. (Aside) Words ! he will 

wriggle out of them like an eel 
When the time serves. {Aloud.) My 

lieges and mv lords. 
The thanks of Holy Church are due 

to those 
That went before us for their work, 

which we 
Inheriting reap an easier harvest. 

Yet 

Louis. My lord, will you be greater 

than the Saints, 
More than St. Peter ? whom what 

is it you doubt.' 
Behold your peace at hand. 

Becket. I say that those 

Who went before us did not wholly 

clear 
The deadly growths of earth, which 

Hell's own heat 
So dwelt on that thev rose and dark- 
ened Heaven. ' 
Yet they did much. Would God thev 

had torn up all 
By the hard root, which shoots again ; 

our trial 
Had so been less ; but, seeing they 



Defective or excessi 

low 
All that they overdid or underdid ? 
Nay, if they were defective as St. 

Peter 





LITTLE OAK-ROOM." — /il^f 163. 




Becket. 



iExit. 
anger puts 



Denying Christ, who yet defied the 
tyrant, 

We hold by his defiance, not his de- 
fect. 

good son Louis, do not counsel me. 
No, to suppress God's honor for the 

sake 
Of any king that breathes. No, God 

forbid ! 
Henry. No ! God forbid ! and turn 

me Mussulman ! 
No God but one, and Mahound is his 

prophet. 
But for your Christian, look you, you 

shall have 
None other God but me — me, 

Thomas, son 
Of Gilbert Becket, London merchant. 

Out! 

1 hear no more. 
Louis. Our brother', 

him. 
Poor man, beside himself — not wise. 

My lord. 
We have claspt your cause, believing 

that our brother 
Had wrong'd you ; but this day he 

proffer'd peace. 
You will have war; and tho' we grant 

the Church 
King over this world's kings, j-et, my 

good lord. 
We that are kings are something in 

this world. 
And so we pray you, draw yourself 

from under 
The wings of France. We shelter 

vou no more. \Exit. 

Johii of Oxford. I am glad that 

France hath scouted him at 

last: 
I told the Pope what manner of man 

he was. {Exit. 

Roger of York. Yea, since he flouts 

the will of either realm. 
Let either cast him away like a dead 

dog ! {Exit. 

Foliot. Yea, let a stranger spoil his 

heritage, 
And let another take his bishopric ! 

{Exit. 
De Broc. Our castle, my lord, be- 
longs to Canterbury. 





I pray you come and take it. {Exit. 
Fitzurse. When you will. {Exit. 
Becket. Cursed be John of Oxford, 

Roger of York, 
And Gilbert Foliot ! cursed those De 

Brocs 
That hold our Saltwood Castle from 

our see ! 
Cursed Fitzurse, and all the rest of 

them 
That sow this hate between my lord 

and me ! 
Voiees fro7ii the Crozud. Blessed be 
the Lord Archbishop, who hath with- 
stood two Kings to their faces for the 
honor of God. 

Becket. Out of the mouths of 

babes and sucklings, praise ! 
I thank you, sons ; when kings but 

hold by crowns. 
The crowd that hungers for a crown 

in Heaven 
Is my true king. 

Herbert. Thy true King bad thee be 
A fisher of men ; thou liast them in 

thy net. 
Becket. I am too like the King 

here ; both of us 
Too headlong for our office. Better 

have been 
A fisherman at Bosham, my gcod 

Herbert, 
Thy birthplace — the sea-creek — the 

pettv rill 
That falls' into it— the green field— 

the gray church — 
The simple lobster-basket, and the 

The more or less of daily labor 

done — 
The pretty gaping bills in the home- 
Piping for bread — the daily want sup- 
plied — 
The dailv pleasure to supply it. 

Herbert. Ah, Thomas, 

You had not borne it, no, not for a 

day. 

Becket. Well, maybe, no, 

Herbert. But bear with Walter 

Map, 

For here he comes to comment on the 

time. 





>• Walter Map. 

Walter M.ip. I'ity, my lord, that 
you have quenched the warmth of 
France tow.ud you. tho' His Holiness, 
after much smouldering and smoking, 
be kindled again upon vour quarter. 

Beckct. Ay, if he do not end in 
smoke again. 

VV.dter Map. My lord, the fire, 
when first kindled, said to the smoke, 
' Go up, my son, straight to Heaven.' 
And the smoke said, ' I go ; ' but anon 
the North-east took and turned him 
South-west, then the South-west 
turned him North-east, and so of the 
other winds ; but it w.is in him to go 
up straight if the time had been 
quicier. Your lordship affects the un- 
wavering perpendicular ; but His 
Ildliness, pushed one way by the 
Knipire and another by England, if he 
move at all, Heaven stay him, is fain 
to diagonalize. 

Herbert. Diagonalize ! thou art a 
word-monger. 
Our Thomas never will diagonalize. 
Thou art a jester and a verse-maker. 
Diagonalize ! 

mdter Map. Is the world any the 
worse for my verses if the Latin 
rhymes be rolled out from a full 
mouth ? or any harm done to the peo- 
ple if my jest be in defence of the 
Truth t 

Becket. Ay, if the jest be so done 
that the people 
Delight to wallow in the grossuess of 

Till Truth herself be shained of her 

defender. 
Ncn defensor ihus istis, Walter Map. 

Walter Map. Is that my case ? so 
if the city be sick, and I cannot call 
the kennel sweet, your lordship would 
suspend me from verse-writing, as you 
suspended yourself after sub-writing 

Becket. I pray Gnd pardon mine 

infirmity. 
Walter .Map. Nay, my lord, take 
heart ; for tho' you suspended your- 
elf, the Pope let you down again ; 




and tho' you suspend Foliot or 
another, the Pope will not leave them 
in suspen.se, for the Pope himself is : 
ways in suspense, likeMahound's coffin 
hung between heaven and earth — al- 
ways in suspense, like the scales, till 
the weight of Germany or the gold of 
England brings one of them down to 
the dust — always in suspense, like the 
tail of the horologe — ^to and fro — tick- 
tack — we make tlie time, we keep the 
time, ay, and we serve the time ; for I 
have heard say that if you bo.\ed the 
Pope's ears w'ith a purse, you might 
stagger him, but he would pocket the 
purse. No saving of mine — Jocelvn 
of Salisbury. ' But the King hath 
bought half 'the College of Kedhats. 
He warmed to you to-day, and you 
have chilled him again. Vet you 
both love God. Agree with him 
quickly again, even for the sake of 
the Church. My one grain of good 
counsel which you will not swallow. 
I hate a split between old friendships 
as I hate the dirty gap in the face of 
a Cistercian monk, that will swallow 
anything. Farewell, \Exit. 

Beeket. Map scoffs at Rome. I all 
but hold with Map. 
Save for mvself no Rome were left in 

England, 
All had been his. Why should this 

Rome, this Rome,' 
Still choose Barabbas rather than the 

Christ, 
Absolve the left-hand thief and damn 

the right? 
Take fees of tyranny, wink at sacri- 
lege, 
Which even Peter had not dared? 

The blameless exile ?— 

Herbert. Thee, thou holy Thomas ! 

I would that thou hadst' been the 
Holy Father. 
Beeket. I would have done my 
most to keep Rome lioly, 

I would have made Rome know she 
still is Rome — 

Who stands aghast at her eternal self 

And shakes at mortal kings — her vac- 
illation, 





Avarice, craft — O God, how many an 

innocent 
left his bones upon the way to 

Rome 
Unwept, uncared for. Yea — on mine 

own self 
The King had had no power except 

for Rome. 
'Tis not the King who is guilty of 

mine exile. 
But Rome, Rome, Rome ! 

Herbert. My Lord, I see this Louis 
Returning, ah ! to drive thee from his 

Becket. He said as much before. 
Thou art no prophet. 
Nor yet a prophet's son. 

Herbert. Whatever he say. 

Deny not thou God's honor for a 

king. 
The Kinglooks troubled. 



Re-enter King Louis. 
Louis. My dear lord Archbishop, 

I learn but now that those poor 
Poitevins, 

That in thy cause were stirr'd against 
King Henry, 

Have been, despite his kingly promise 
given 

To our own self of pardon, evilly used 

And put to pain. I have lost all trust 
in him. 

The Church alone hath eves — and 
now I see 

That I was blind— suffer the phrase- 
surrendering 

God's honor to the pleasure of a 

P'orgive nie and absolve me. holv 
father. \Kneeh. 

Becket. Son, I absolve thee in the 
name of God. 

Louis (rising). Return to Sens, 

The wine and wealth of all our France 

are yours ; 

Rest in our realm, and be at peace 

with all. [Exeunt. 

Voices from the Crozod. Long live 

the good King Louis ! God bless the 

Archbishop ! 





Henry (looking after King Louis 
and Becket). Ay, there they go — 

both backs are turn'd to me — 
Why then I strike into my former 

path 
For England, crown young Henry 

there, and make 
Our waning Eleanor all but love me ! 
John, 
Thou hast served me heretofore with 

Rome— and well. 
They call thee John the Swearer. 

John of Oxford. For this reason, 
That, being ever duteous to the King, 
I evermore have sworn upon his side, 
And ever mean to do it. 

Henry (claps him on the shoulder). 
Hone,st John ! 
To Rome again ! the storm begins 

again. 
Spare not thy tongue ! be lavish with 

our coins, 
Threaten our junction with the Em- 
■fla 



peror — natter 

And fright the Pojie — bribe all 
Cardinals— leave 

Lateran and Vatican in one du: 
gold- 
state thy be.s't \ ^ 
have young Henr 
York. 



go 



the 



crown'd by 



ACT III. 
SCENE L— The Bower. 
Henrv and ROS.\MfND. 
Henry. All that you say is just, 
es. when I shall put 
What will you put 
which you ask me 



Till better 

away 

Rosatnuih 



Henry. Tl 

Till better times 

now 
There is no woman that 





woman but should 
lith that— 
Henry. And one fair child to 

fondle ! 

Rosamund. O yes, the child 

We waited for so long — heaven's gift 

at last— 
And how you doated on him then ! 

To-day 
I almost fear'd your kiss was colder 

— yes— 
But then the child is such a child. 

What chance 
That he should ever spread into the 

man 
Here in our silence? I have done 

my best. 
I am not learn'd. 

Hcinv. I am the King, his 
father, 
And I will look to it. Is our secret 



Have you had any alarm .■* no 

stranger } 
Rosamund. No. 

The warder of the bower hath given 

himselfj 
Of late to wine. I sometimes think 

he sleeps 
When he should watch ; and yet what 

(ear ? the people 
Believe the wood enchanted. No one 



Limes 



Nor foe 



his fond excess 



ot wine 



Springs from the loneliness of my poor 
bower. 

Which weighs even on me. 

Henry. Vet these tree-towers. 

Their long bird-echoing minster-aisles, 
— the voice 

Of the perpetual brook, these golden 
slopes 

Of Solomon-shaming flowers — that 
was your saying, 

All pleased you so at first. 

Rosamund. Not now so much. 

My Anjou bower was scarce as beau- 
tiful. 

But )-ou were oftener there. I have 
none but you. 

The brook's voice is not yours, and 
no flower, not 




The: 




n himself, should he be changed 
the darkness of that 



Could shi 
gap 

Left by the lack of love. 
Henry. The lack of love I 

Rosamund. Of one we love. Nay, 
I would not be bold, 

Yet hoped ere this you might 

[Looks earnestly at him. 
Henry. Anything further.' 

Rosamund. Only my best bower- 
maiden died of late. 
And that old priest whom John of 

Salisbury trusted 
Hath sent another. 

Henry. Secret ? 

Rosamund. I but ask'd her 

One question, and she primm'd her 

mouth and put 
Her hands together — thus — and said, 

God help her, 
That she was sworn to silence. 
Henry. What did you ask her .' 

Rosamund. Some daily something- 
nothing. 
Henry. Secret, then .' 

Rosamund. I do not love her. 
Must you go, my liege. 
So suddenly } 

Henry. I came to England sud- 
denly. 
And on a great occasion sure to 
wake 

As great a wrath in Becket 

Rosamund. Always Becket ! 

He always comes between us. 

Henry. — And to meet it 

I needs must leave as suddenly. It is 

raining. 
Put on your hood and see me to the 
boimds. \^Exeuut. 

Margery (singing behind scene). 
Babble in bower 

Under the rose ! 
Bee mustn't buzz. 

Whoop — but he knows. 



Kiss me, little one. 

Nobody near I 
Grasshopper, grassho 

Whoop — you can he 





Kiss in the bower, 

Tit on the tree ! 
Bird mustn't tell, 

Whoop — he can see. 

Enter Margery. 
I ha' been but a week here and I 
ha" seen what I ha' seen, for to be sure 
it's no more than a week since our old 
Father Philip that has confessed our 
mother for twenty years, and she was 
hard put to it, and to speak truth, nigh 
at the end of our last crust, and that 
mouldy, and she cried out on him to 
put me forth in the world and to 
make me a woman of the world, and 
to win my own bread, whereupon he 
asked our mother if I could keep a 
quiet tongue i'my head, and not speak 
till I was spoke' to, and I answered 
for myself that I never spoke more 
than was needed, and he told me he 
would advance me to the service of a 
great lady, and took me ever so far 
away, and gave me a great pat o' the 
cheek for a pretty wench, and said it 
was a pity to blindfold such eyes as 
mine, and such to be sure they be, 
but he blinded 'em for all that, and so 
brought me no-hows as I may say, 
and the more shame to him after his 
promise, into a garden and not into 
the world, and bad me whatever I 
saw not to speak one word, an' it 'ud 
be well for me in the end, for there 
were great ones who would look after 
me. and to be sure I ha' seen great 
ones to-day — and then not to speak 
one word, for that's the rule o' the 
garden, tho' to be sure if I had been 
Eve i' the garden I shouldn't ha' 
minded the apple, for what's an apple, 
you know, save to a child, and I'm no 
child, but more a woman o' the world 
than my lady here, and I ha' seen 
what I iia' seen — tho' to be sure if I 
hadn't minded it we should all on us 
ha' had to go, bless the .Saints, wi' 
bare backs, but the backs 'ud ha' coun- 
tenanced one another, and belike it 
'ud ha' been always summer, and 
anyhow I am as well-shaped as my 





lady here, and I ha' seen what 
seen, and what's the good of my talk- 
ing to myself, for here comes my ladv 
(enter Rosamund), and, my lady, tho' 
I shouldn't speak one word, 1 wish 
you joy o' the King's brother. 

Rosamund. What is it you mean ? 

Margery. I mean your goodman, 
your husband, my lady, for I saw your 
ladyship a-parting wi' him even now i' 
the coppice, when I was a-getting o' 
bluebells for your ladyship's nose to 
smell on — and I ha' seen the King 
once at Oxford, and he's as like the 
King as fingernail to fingernail, and I 
thought at first it was the King, only 
you know the King's married, for. 

RimiiHiiud. Married ! 

Margery. Years and years, my 
ladv, for her husband. King Louis 

kosamuiul. Hush! 

Margery. —And I thought if it 
were the King's brother he had a bet- 
ter bride than the King, for the people 
do say that his is bad beyond all reck- 
oning, and — -■ — 

Rosamund. The jieople lie. 

Margery. Very like, my lady, but 
most on 'em know an honest woman 
and a lady when they see her, and be- 
sides they say, she makes songs, and 
that's against her, for I never knew 
an honest woman that could make 
songs, tho' to be sure our mother 'ill 
sing me old songs by the hour, but 
then, God help her, she had 'em from 
her mother, and her mother from her 
mother back and back for ever so 
long, but none on 'em ever made songs, 
and they were all honest. 

Rosamund. Go, you shall tell me 
of her some other time. 

Margery. There's none so much 
to tell on her, my lady, only she kept 
the seventh cominandment better than 
some I know on, or I couldn't look 
your ladyship i' the face, and she 
brew'd the best ale in all Glo'ster, 
that is to say in her time when she 
had the ' Crown.' 

Rosamund. The crown ! who ^ 

Margery. Mother. 





Becket. 



Rosamund. I mean her whom you 
call— fancy — my husband's brother's 
wife. 

Margery. Oh, Queen Eleanor. 
Yes, my lady ; and the' 1 be sworn 
not to speak a word, I can tell you all 

about her, if 

Rosamund. No word now. I am 
faint and sleepy. Leave me. Nay — 
go. What ! will you anger me ? 

{^Exil Margery. 
He charged me not to question any of 

those 
About me. Have I ? no ! she ques- 

tion'd nie. 
Did she not slander him? Should she 

stay here ? 
May she not tempt me, being at my 

side. 
To question her? Nay, can I send 

her hence 
Without his kingly leave .' I am in 

the dark. 
I have lived, poor bird, from cage to 

cage, and known 
Nothing but him — happy to know no 

more, 
So that he loved 




lid he lo 
is love 



And bound me by 

secrecv 
Till his own time. 

Eleanor, Eleanor, have I 
Not heard ill things of her in France .' 

Oh, she's 
The Queen of France. I see it — some 

confusion, 
Some strange mistake. I did not 

hear aright. 
Myself confused with parting from the 

King. 
Margery (behind scene). Bee 
mustn't buzz. 

Whoop — but he knows. 
Rosamund. Yet her — what her .' he 

hinted of some her — 
When he was here before — 
Something that would displease me. 

Hath he stray'd 
From love's clear path into the com- 
mon bush. 
And, being scratch'd, returns to his 



Who hath not thorn enough to prick 

him for it, 
Ev'n with a word ? 

Margery (behind seene). Bird 

mustn't tell. 

Whoop — he can see. 

Rosamund. I would not hear him. 

Nay — there's more — he frown'd 

' No mate for her, if it should come to 

that ' — 
To that— to what .' 

Margery (behind scene). Whoop — 
but he knows. 
Whoop — but he knows. 
Rosamund. O God ! some dread- 
ful truth is breaking on me — 
Some dreadful thing is coming on 
me. \Enter Geoffrey. 

Geoffrey ! 
Geoffrey. What are you crying for, 

when the sun shines .' 
Rosamund. Hath not thy father 

left us to ourselves? 
Geoffrey. Ay, but he's taken the 
rain with him. I hear Margery : I'll 
go play with her. {Exit Geoffrey. 

Rosamund. Rainbow, stay. 
Gleam upon gloom. 
Bright as my dream. 
Rainbow, stay ! 
But it passes away. 
Gloom upon gleam. 
Dark as my doom — 
O rainbow stay. 



SCENE H. — Outside the Woods 

NEAR RoS.IMUND'S BoWER. 

Eleanor. Fitzurse. 

Eleanor. Up from the salt lips of 
the land we two 

Have track'd the King to this dark 
inland wood ; 

And somewhere hereabouts he van- 
ish'd. Here 

His turtle builds ; his exit is our adit : 

Watch ! he will out again, and pres- 
ently. 

Seeing he must to Westminster and 
crown 

Youui^ Ilenrv there to-morrow. 





pass 



And on the other side. 

[A i^rea^ hoTU winded, 
"Hark! Madam! 
Ekaiwr. Ay, 

How ghostly sounds that horn in the 
black wood ! 

\A countryman flying. 
Whither away, man ? what are )Ou 
flying from ? 
Countryman. The witch ! the 
witch! she sits naked by a great heap 
of gold in the middle of the wood, 
and when the horn sounds she comes 
out as a wolf. Get you hence ! a 
man passed in there to-day : I holla'd 
to him, l)ut he didn't hear me : he'll 
never out again, the witch has got 
him. I daren't stay — I daren't 



Eleanor. Kind of the witch to 
give thee warning tho'. 

Is not this wood-witch of the rustic's 

fear 
Our woodland Circe that hath witch'd 
the King.' 
[Norn sounded. Another flying. 
Fitznrse. Again! stay, fool, and 

tell me why thou fliest. 
Countryman. Fly thou too. The 
King keeps his forest head of game 
here, and when that horn sounds, a 
score of wolf-dogs are let loose that 
will tear thee piecemeal. Linger not 
till the third horn. Fly! [Exit. 

Eleanor. This is the likelier tale. 
We have hit the place. 
Now let the King's fine game look to 
itself. [Horn. 

Fitzurse. Again ! — 
And far on in the dark heart of the 

wood 
I hear the yelping of the hounds of 



hell 
Elea,wr. I have my d 
to still their throats, 
Fitzurse. Nay, Madam, n< 
night — the night is falling 
What can be done to-night } 

Well— well— 




ger he 




SCENE HI— Traitor's Meadow 
AT Fketeval. Pavilions and 
Tents of the English and 
French Baronage. 

Becket and Herbert of Bosham. 

Beeket. See here ! 
Herbert. What's here ? 

Beei-et. A notice from the priest. 
To whom our John of Salisbury com- 
mitted 
The secret of the bower, that our wolf- 
Queen 
Is prowling round the fold. I should 

be back 
In England ev'n for this. 

Herbert. These are by-things 

In the great cause. 

Becket. The by-things of the Lord 
Are the wrong'd innocences that will 

cry 
From all the hidden by-ways of the 

world 
In the great day against the wronger. 

I know 
Thy meaning. Perish she, I, all, 

before 
The Church should suffer wrong ! 

Herbert. Do you see, my lord. 

There is the King talking with Wal- 
ter Map > 
Becket. He hath the Pope's last 
letters, and they threaten 
The immediate thunder-blast of inter- 
dict : 
Vet he can scarce be touching upon 

those. 
Or scarce would smile that fashion. 

Herbert. Winter sunshine ! 

Beware of opening out thy bosom to 

Lest thou, myself, and all thy flock 

should catch 
An after ague-fit of trembling. 

Look! 
He bows, he bares his head, he is 

coming hither. 
Stili with a smile. 





Bcckd. 



Henry. We have had so many 
hours together, Thomas, 
So many happy hours alone to- 
gether. 

That I would speak with you once 
more alone. 

Bicket. My liege, your will and 
happiness are mine. 

\E.xiuiit King and Becket. 

Herbert. The same smile still. 

W.dler .I/,,/. Do you see that 
great black clnuil that hath come over 
the sun and cast us all into shadow.^ 

Her/ic-r/. And feel it too. 

Walter Map. And see you yon side- 
beam that is forced from under it, and 
sets the church-tower over there all a- 
hell-fire as it were. 

Herbert. Ay. 
_ Walter Map. It is this black, bell- 
silencing, anti-marrying, burial-hinder- 
ing interdict that hath squeezed out 
this side-smile upon Canterbury, 
whereof may come conflagratioii. 
Were I Thomas, I wouldn't trust it. 
Sudden change is a house on sand; 
and the' I count Henry honest 
enough, yet when fear creeps in at the 
front, honesty steals out at the 
back, and the King at last is fairly 
scared by this cloud — this interdict. 
I have been more for the King than 
the Church in this matter — vea, even 
for the sake of the Church : for, truly, 
as the case stood, you had safelier have 
slain an archbishop than a she-goat : 
but our recoverer and upholder of 
cijstoms hath in this crowning of 
young Henry by York and London so 
violated the ininiemorial usage of the 
Church, that, like the gravedigger's 
child I have heard of, trying to ring 
the bell, he hath half-hanged himself 
in the rope of the Church, or rather 
pulled all the Church with the Holy 
Father astride of it down upon his 
own head. 

Herbert. Were you there ? 

IValter Map. In the church rope ? 

— no, I was at the crowning, for I 

have pleasure in the pleasure of 

crowds, and to read the faces of men 





Herbert. And how did Roger of 
York comport himself.' 

Walter Map. As magnificently and 
archiepiscopally as our Thomas 
would have done : only there was a 
dare-devil in his eye — I should say a 
dare-Becket. He thought less of two 
kings than of one Roger the king of 
the occasion. Foliot is the holier 
man, perhaps the better. Once or 
twice there ran a twitch across his 
face as who should say what's to fol- 
low ? but Salisbury was a calf cowed 
by Mother Church, and every now 
and then glancing about him like a 
thief at night when he hears a door 
open in the house and thinks ' the 
master.' 

Herbert. And the father-king? 

Walter Map. The father's eye 
was so tender it would have called a 
goose off the green, and once he 
strove to hide his face, like the Greek 
king when his daughter was sacrificed, 
but he thought better of it : it was but 
the sacrifice of a kingdom to his son, 
a smaller matter ; but as to the young 
crownling himself, he looked so mala- 
pert in the eyes, that had I fathered 
him I had given him more of the 
rod than the sceptre. Then followed 
the thunder of the captains and the 
shouting, and so we came on to the 
banquet, from whence there puffed 
out such an incense of unctuosity into 
the nostrils of our Gods of Church 
and State, that Lucullus or Apicius 
might have sniffed it in their Hades 
of heathenism, so that the smell of 
their own roast had not come across 

Herbert. Map, the' you make your 
butt too big, you overshoot it. 

Walter Map. — For as to the fish, 
they de-miracled the miraculous 
draught, and might have sunk a 



again, Goliasing 



Herbert. There 
and Goliathising ! 

Walter Map. — .\nd as for the 
flesh at table, a whole Peter's sheet, 
with all manner of game, and four- 
footed things, and fowls 





Herbert. And all manner of creep- 
ing things too ? 

Walter Map. —Well, tliere were 
Abbots — but tJiey did not bring tiieir 
women ; and so we were dull enough 
at first, but in the end we flourished 
out into a mertiment ; for the old King 
would act servitor and hand a dish to 
his son ; whereupon my lord of York 
— )iis fine-cut face bowing and beam- 
ing with all that courtesy which hath 
less loyalty in it than the backward 
scrape of the clown's heel — ' great 
honor,' says he, ' from the King's self 
to the King's son.' Did you hear the 
young King's quip ? 

Herbert. No, what was it ? 

Waller Map. Glancing at the days 
when his father was only Earl of 
Anjou, he answered : — ' Should not 
an earl's son wait on a king's son?' 
And when the cold corners of the 
King's mouth began to thaw, there 
was a great motion of laughter among 
us, part real, part childlike, to be freed 
from the dulness — part royal, for 
King and kingling both laughed, and 
so we could not but laugh, as by a 
royal necessity — part childlike again 
— when we felt we had laughed too 
long and could not stay ourselves — 
many midriff-shaken even to tears, as 
springs gush out after earthquakes — 
but from those, as I said before, there 
inay come a conflagration — tho', to 
keep the figure moist and make it 
hold water, I should say rather, the 
lacrymation of a lamentation ; but 
look if Thomas have not flung him- 
self at the King's feet. They have 
made it up again — for the moment. 

Herbert. Thanks to the blessed 
Magdalen, whose day it is. 



Re-enter Henry and Becket. (Dur- 
ing their conference the Barons and 
Bishops ^'France and England 
come in at hack of sta/re.) 
Becket. Ay, King ! for in thy king- 
dom, as thou knowest. 
The spouse of the Great King, thy 
King, hath fallen — 




The daughter of Zion 

way— 
The priests of Baal tread her under 

foot— 
The golden ornaments are stolei 

from her 

Henry. Have I not promised tc 

restore her, Thomas, 
And send thee back again to Canter 



Dury .' 
Becket. .Send back 
e.xiles of mv kin 



those 



ed thr 



Who wander famii 
world. 
Henry. Have I not promised, man, 

to send them back ? 
Becket. Yet one thing mtJle. Thou 
hast broken thro' the pales 
Of privilege, crowning thy young son 

by York, 
London and Salisbury — not Canter- 
bury. 
Henry. York crown'd the Con- 
queror — not Canterbury. 
Becket. There was no Caiiterliury 

in William's time. 
Henry. But Hereford, you know, 

crown'd the first Henry. 
Becket. But Anselm crown'd this 

Henry o'er again. 
Horry. And thou shalt crown my 

Henry o'er again. 
Becket. And is It then with thy 
good-will that I 
Proceed against thine evil council- 
lors. 
And hurl the dread ban of the Church 

on those 
Who made the second mitre play the 

first. 
And acted me? 

Henry. Well, well, then— have thy 
way ! 
It may be they were evil council- 

What more, my lord Archbishop ? 
What more, Thomas ? 

I make thee full amends. Sav all 
thy say. 

But blaze not out before the French- 
men here. 
Becket. More? Nothing, so thy 
promise be thy deed. 





Henry [holding out Ids hand). 
Give me thy hand. My Lords 
of France and England, 

My friend of Canterbury and my- 
self 

Ave now once more at perfect amity. 

Unkingly should I be, and most un- 
knightly, 

Not striving still, however much in 



Toi 



Herbe, 



All 



Christian charity, 
praise to Heaven, 



and sweet St. Magdalen ! 
Henry. And so farewell until we 

meet in England. 
Beckst- I fear, my liege, we may 

not meet in England 
Henry. How, do you make me a 

traitor ? 
Belief. No, indeed ! 

That be far from thee. 

Henry. Come, stay with us, then. 
Before you part for England. 

Becket. I am bound 

For that one hour to stay with good 

King Louis, 
Who helpt me when none else. 

Herbert. He said thy life 

Was not one hour's worth in England 

save 
King Henry gave thee first the kiss of 
peace. 
Henry. He said so? Louis, did 
lie .' look you, Herbert, 
When I was in mine anger with King 

Louis, 
I sware I would not give the kiss of 

peace. 
Not on French ground, nor any ground 

but English, 
Where his cathedral stands. Mine 

old friend, Thomas, 
I would there were that perfect 

trust between us. 
That health of heart, once ours, ere 

Pope or King 
Had come between us ! Even now — 
who knows ? — 
might deliver all things to thy 
hand — 
If . . . but I say no more . . . fare- 
well, my lord. 
Beekel. Farewell, my liege ! 





\Exit Henry, then the Barons ami 

Bishops. 

Walter Map. There again ! when 

the full fruit of the royal promise 

might have dropt into thy mouth 

hadst thou but opened it to thank 

Becket. He fenced his royal prom- 

isewithan,/ 
Walter Map. And is the King's if 
too high a stile for your lordship to 
overstep and come at all things in 
the ne-xt field ? 

Becket. Ay, if this // be like the 

Devil's'// 

1 hou wilt fall down and worship me.' 

Herbert. (Jh, Thomas, 

I could fall down and worship thee, 

my Thomas, 
For thou hast trodden this wine-press 



alo 



then 



Becket. Nay, of the people 
are many with me. 

Walter Map. I am not altogether 
with you, my lord, tho' I am none of 
Aose that would raise a storm be- 
tween you, lest ye should draw to- 
gether like two ships in a calm. You 
wrong the King : he meant what he 
said to-day. Who shall vouch for his 
to-morrows ? One word further. 
Doth not the fe-vness of anything 
make the fulness of it in estimation ? 
Is not virtue prized mainly for its rar- 
ity and great baseness loathed as an 
exception : for were all, my lord, as 
noble as yourself, who would look up 
to you ? and were all as base as — who 
shall I say — Fitzurse and his follow- 
ing — who would look down upon 
them.' My lord, you have put so 
many of the King's household out of 
communion, that they begin to smile 
at it. 

Becket. At their peril, at their 
peril 

Walter Map. — For tho' the drop 
may hollow out the dead stone, doth 
not the living skin thicken against 
perpetual whippings ? This is the 
second grain of good counsel I ever 
proffered thee, and so cannot suffer by 
the rule of frequency. F — ' ■'' 





ly visions in the 
friend ! the wolves 



in salt ? I trust not, for before God I 
promise you the King hath many 
more wolves than he can tame in his 
woods of England, and if it suit their 
purpose to howl for the King, and you 
still move against him, you may have 
lui less than to die for it ; but God and 
his free wind grant your lordship a 
happy home-return and the King's kiss 
of peace in Kent. Farewell ! I must 
follow the King. [Exit. 

Herbert. Ay, and I warrant the 

customs. Did the King 
Speak of the customs? 

Becket. No !— to die for it— 

] live to die for it, I die to live for it. 
'I'he .State will die, the Church can 

never die. 
The Kind's not like to die for that 

which dies ; 
Hut I must die for that which never 

dies. 
It will be so- 

Lord : 
It must be so, m 

of Englan 
Must murder her one shepherd, that 

the sheep 
May feed in peace. False figure, Map 

would say. 
Earth's falses are heaven's truths. 

And when my voice 
Is martyr'd mute, and this man disap- 
pears, 
That perfect trust may come again be- 
tween us. 
And there, there, there, not here I 

shall rejoice 
To find my stray sheep back within 

the fold. 
The crowd are scattering, let us move 

away ! 
And thence to England. \Exeiiiit. 



Geoffrey (coming out of the wood). 
Light again ! light again ! Margery ? 





no, that's a finer thing ther 
glitters ! 

Eleanor {entering). Come to me, 
little one. Howcamest thou hither.' 

Geoffrey. On my legs. 

Eleanor. And mighty pretty legs 
too. Thou art the prettiest child I 
ever saw. Wilt thou love me ? 

Geoffrey. No ; I only love mother. 

Eleajior. Ay; and who is thy 
mother ? 

Geoffrey. They call her But 

she lives secret, vou see. 

Eleanor. Why.> 

Geoffrey. Don't know why. 

Eleanor. Ay, but some one comes 
to see her now and then. Who 
is he.' 

Geoffrey. Can't tell. 

Eleanor. What does she call him .' 

Geoffrey. My liege. 

Eleanor. Pretty one, how camest 
thou ? 

Geoffrey. There was a bit of yellow 
silk here and there, and it looked 
pretty like a glowworm, and I thought 
if I followed it I should find the 
fairies. 

Eleanor. I am the fairy, pretty 
one, a good fairy to thy mother. 
Take me to her. 

Geoffrey. There are good fairies 
and bad fairies, and sometimes she 
cries, and can't sleep sound o' nights 
because of the bad fairies. 

Eleanor. She shall cry no more ; 
she shall sleep sound enough if thou 
wilt take me to her. I am her good 
fairy. 

Geoffrey. But you don't look like a 
good fairy. Mother does. You are 
not prettv, like mother. 

Eleanor. We can't all of us be as 
pretty as thou d^xt— (aside) little bas- 
tard. Come, here is a golden chain I 
will give thee if thou wilt lead me to 
thy mother. 

Geoffrey. No— no gold. Mother 
says gold' spoils all. Love is the only 
gold. 

Eleanor. I love thy mother, my 
pretty boy. Show me where thou 
camest out of the wood. 





Geoffrey. 
know if 'I can find the way back 
again. 

Eleanor. Where's the warder ? 

Geoffrey. Very bad. Somebody 
struck him. 

Eleanor. Ay ? who was that ? 

Geoffrey. Can't tell. But I heard 
say he had had a stroke, or you'd have 
heard his horn before now. Come 
along, then } we shall see the silk here 
and there, and I want my supper. 

]E.reunt. 



SCENE II.— Ros.-vmund's Bower. 

Rosamund. The boy so iate; pray 
God, he be not lost. 

I sent this Margery, and she comes 
not back ; 

I sent another, and she comes not 
back. 

I go myself — so many alleys, cross- 
ings, 

Paths, avenues — nay, if I lost him, 

The folds have fallen from the mys- 
tery, 
And left all naked, I were lost indeed. 

Enter GEOFFREY and Eleanor. 

Geoffrev, the pain thou hast put me 
to ! iSeeins; Eleanor. 

Ha, you ! 
How came you hither.' 

Eleanor. Your own child brought 

me hither ! 
Geoffrey. You said you couldn't 
trust Margery, and T watched her and 
followed her into the woods, and I 
lost her and went on and on till [ 
found the light, and the lady, and she 



ep o' nights. 



bower 



says sne can make vou 
Rosamund. How 

Know you not 

secret. 
Of and belonging to the King of Eng- 



More sacred than his forests for the 





Lest worse befall vou. 

Eleanor. Child, I am mine own 

self 
Of and belonging to the King. The 

King 
Hath divers ofs and ons, ofs and be- 
longings, 
Almost as many as your true Mussul- 
man — 
Belongings, paramours, whom it 

pleases him 
To call his wives; but so it chances, 

child, 
That I am his main paramour, his 

sultana. 
But since the fondest pair of doves 

will jar, 
Ev'n in a cage of gold, we had words 

of late, 
And thereupon he call'd my children 

bastards. 
Do you believe that you are married 

to him .> 
Rosamund. I should believe it. 
Eleanor. You must not believe it, 
Because I have a wholesome medicine 

here 
Puts that belief asleep. Your answer, 

beauty I 
Do you believe that you are married to 

him.' 
Rosamund. Geoffrey, my boy, I saw 
the ball you lost in the fork of the 
great willow over the brook. Go. 
See that you do not fall in. Go. 

Geoffrey. And leave you alone with 
the good fairv. She calls you beauty, 
but r don't like_her looks. Well, yo'u 
bid me go, and'l'll have my ball any- 
how. Shall I find you asleep when I 
come back ? 

Rosamund. (Jo. [j?x// Geoffrey. 
Eleanor. He is easily found again. 

Do you believe it ? 
I pray you' then to take my sleeping- 
draught ; 
But if you should not care to take it 

—see ! \Dya-Ps a dagger. 

What! have I scared the red rose 

from your face 
Into your he'art .' But this will find it 

there. 
And dig it from the root for ever. 





Rosamund. Help! help! 

E/eaiior. They say that walls have 

ears ; but these, it seems, 

Have none ! and I have none — to 

pity thee. 

Kosamiiiid. I do beseech you — my 

child is so young, 

So backward too ; I cannot leave him 



happy I could not di( 
You 



But the child is so young. 

children— his ; 
And mine is the King's child ; so, if 

you love him — 
Nay, if you love him, there is great 

wrong done 
Somehow ; but if you do not — there 

are those 
Who say you do not love him — let me 

go 
With my young boy, and I will hide 

my face. 
Blacken and gipsyfy it ; none shall 

know me ; 
The King shall never hear of me 

again. 
But I will beg my bread along the 

world 
With my young boy, and God will be 

our guide. 
I never meant you harm in any way. 
See, I can say no more. 

Eleanor. Will you not say you are 

Rosarnnnd. Ay, Madam, I can say 

it, if you w'ill. 
Eleanor. Then is thy pretty boy a 

bastard ? 
Rosa/nund. No. 

Eleanor. And thou thyself a 

proven wanton .' 
Rosamund. No. 

I am none such. 1 never loved but 

one. 
I have heard of such thai range from 

love to love. 
Like the wild beast— if vou can call it 





Never knew any such, and he 

You do misname me, match 'd withanv 

such, 
I am snow to mud. 

Eleanor. The more the pity then 
That thy true home — the heavens — 

cry out for thee 
Who art too pure for earth. 

Enter FiTZURSE. 

Filzurse. Give her to me. 

Eleanor. The Judas-lover of our 
passion-play 
Hath track'd us hither. 
Fitzursc. Well, why not? I fol- 
lowed 
You and the child : he babbled all the 

way. 
Give her to me to make my honey- 
moon. 
Eleanor. Ay, as the bears love 
honey. Could you keep her 
Indungeon'd from one whisper of the 

wind. 
Dark even from a side glance of the 

And oublietted in the 



Fitz. 



3the 



To bring 



my hale and thy revenge. 
You bad me take revenge 



Come 



to the du 
with me, love. 
And I will love ihee. . . . Madam, let 

her live. 
I have a far-off burrow where the 

King 
Would miss her and for ever. 

Eleanor. How sayst thou, 

sweetheart.' 
Wilt thou go with him ? he will marry 
thee. 
Rosatnund. Give me the poison ; 
set me free of him ! 

[Eleanor offers the vial 
No, no ! I will not have it. 

Eleanor. Then this other. 

The wiser choice, because my sleej:- 

ing-draught 
May bloat thy beauty out of shape, 

and make 
Thy body loathsome even to thr 
child: 





While this but leaves thee with a 

broken heart, 
A doll-face blaiich'd and bloodless, 

over which 
If pretty Geoffrey do not break his 

It must be broken for him. 

Rosamund. O I see now 

Your purpose is to fright me — a 

troubadour 
You play with words. You had never 

used so many. 
Not if vou meant it, I am sure. The 

(Jhild . . . 
No . . . mercy ! No ] (Kneels.) 
Eleanor. Play! . . . that 

bosom never 
Heaved under the King's hand with 

such true passion 
As at this loveless knife that stirs the 

riot, 
Which it will quench in blood ! 

Slave, if he love thee. 
Thy life is worth the wrestle for it; 



And d 
The W( 



yself against me that I 

may slay thee ! 

orm ! shall I let her go .' But 

ha ! what's here ? 
By very God, the cross I gave the 

King ! 
His village darling in some lewd caress 
Has wheedled it off the King's neck to 



By thy leave, beauty. Ay, the same ! 

I warrant 
Thou hast sworn on this my cross a 

hundred times 
Never to leave him — and that merits 

death. 
False oath on holv cross— for thou 

must leave hmi 
To-day, but not quite yet. My good 

Kitzurse, 
The running down the chase is kind- 
lier sport 
Ev'n than the death. Who knows 

but that thv lover 
May plead so pitifully, that I may 

spare thee ? 
Come hither, man stand there. ( To 

Rosamund) Take thy one 

cliance ; 




Catch at the last straw. Kneel to 

thy lord Kitzurse ; 
Crouch even because thou hatesi him ; 

fawn upon him 
For thy life and thy son's. 
Rosamund h-isinir]. I am a Clif- 
ford, 
My son a Clifford and Plantagenet. 
I am to die then, tho' there stand 

beside thee 
One who might grapple with thy 

dagger, if he 
Had aught of man, or thou of woman ; 

or I 
Would bow to such a baseness as 

would make me 
Most worthy of it : both of us will die. 
And I will fiy with my sweet boy to 

heaven. 
And shriek to all the saints among the 

'Eleanor of Aquitaine, Eleanor of 

England ! 
Murder'd by that adulteress Eleanor, 
Whose doings are a horror to the east, 
A hissing in the west ! ' Have we 

not heard 
Raymond of Poitou, thine own uncle 

Geoffrey Plantagenet, thine own hus- 
band's father — 

Nay, ev'n the accursed heathen Salad- 
deen 

Strike! 

I challenge thee to meet nie before 
God. 

Answer me there. 

Eleanor {rais/'n^^ the dagger). This 
in thy bosom, fool. 

And after in thy bastard's ! 



hold of he 



Catehe 




Becket. Murderess ! 

[ The dagger falls ; they stare at 

one another. After a pause. 

Eleanor, My lord, we know you 

proud of your fine hand, 

But having now admired it long 

enough. 
We find that it is mightier than it 
seems — 





ne own is frailer : you are 
ning it. 

And lamed and maim'd to 
dislocation, better 
Tiian raised to take a life which 

Henry bad me 
Guard from the stroke that dooms 

thee after death 
To wail in deathless flame. 

Eleanor. Nor you, nor I 

Have now to learn, my lord, that our 

good Henry 
Says many a thing in sudden heats, 

which he 
Gainsays by next sunrising — often 

ready 
To tear himself for having said as 
much. 

My lord, Fitzurse 

Becket. He too ! what dost thou 
here? 
Dares the bear slouch into the lion's 

den ? 
One downward plunge of his paw 

would rend away 
Eyesight and manhood, life itself, 

from thee. 
Go, lest I blast thee with anathema. 
And make thee a world's horror. 

Fitzurse. My lord, I shall 

Remember this. 

Becket. I (/.' remember thee ; 

Lest I remember thee to the lion, go. 

[Exit Fitzurse. 

Take up your dagger; put it in the 

sheath. 

Eleanor. Might not your courtesy 

stoop to hand it me ? 

But crowns must bow when mitres sit 

so high. 
Well— well — too costly to be left or 



When I was there in Antioch, mar- 
vell'd at 

Our unfamiliar beauties of the west ; 

Hut wonder'd more at my much con- 
stancy 

To the monk-king, Louis, our former 
burthen. 

From whom, as being too kin. you 
know, mv lord, 




I speak 
inion of 



God's grace and Holy Church de- 

'iver'd us. 
think, time given, I could have 

talk'd him out of 
His ten wives into one. Look at the 

hilt. 
What excellent workmanship. In 

our poor west 
We cannot do it so well. 

Becket. We can do worse. 

Madam, I saw your dagger at her 

throat ; 
I heard vour savage cry. 

Eleanor. Well acted, was it .> 

A comedy meant to seem a tragedv — 
A feint, a farce. My honest lord, you 

are known 
Thro' all the courts of Christendom 

That mars a cause with over-vio- 
lence. 
Vou have wrong'd Fitzurse 

not of myself. 
We thought to scare this 

the King 
Back from her churchless commerce 

with the King 
To the fond arms of her first love, 

Fitzurse, 
Who swore to marry her. Vou have 

spoilt the farce. 
My savage cry ? Why, she — she — 

when I strove 
To work against her license for her 

good, 
Bark'd out at me such monstrous 

charges, that 
The King himself, for love of his own 

sons. 
If hearing, would have spurn'd her ; 

whereupon 
I menaced her with this, as when we 

threaten 
A yelper with a stick. Nay. I deny 

not 
That I was somewhat anger'd. Do 

Believe or no, I care not. You have 

lost 
The ear of the King. I have it. . . . 

My Lord Paramount, 
Our great High-priest, will not youi 

Holiness 





Vouchsafe a £;rac:ou 
Queen ? 
ckct. Rosamund hath not an- 
swer'ci you one word : 

Madam, i will not answer you one 
word 

Daughter, the world hath trick'd thee. 
Leave it, daughter ; 

Come thou with me to Godstow nun- 
nery, 

And live what may be left thee of a 

dth Him 



Saved as by miracli 
Who gave it. 



Jie-enter GEOFFREY. 
Gc-offrey. Mother, you told me a 
great fib: it wasn't in the wil- 

Beckct. Follow us, my son, and we 

will tind ,t for thee- 
Or something manlier. 

\^ExLun: Becket, Rosamund, and 

Geoffrey. 
EU-anor. The world hath trick'd 

her— that's the King ; if so. 
There was the farce, the feint — not 

mine. And yet 
I am all but sure my dagger was a 

feint 
Till the worm turo'd— not life shot up 

in blood. 
But death drawn in; — (lookiiiir at flu- 
vial) this was no feint then .' 

no. 
But can \ swear to that, had she but 

th'nks ''^ "^'^ ' "^-^''"'^ 

Had she bat bow'd herself to meet 

Of huniiuation, worshipt whom she 

loathed, 
I should have let her be, scorn'd her 

too much 
To harm her. Henrv— Becket tells 




him ; one point 
Pope divorced 



Why should 

am, or was, 
A sovereign power .= The King 

plucks out their eyes 
Who anger him, and shall not I, the 

Queen, 
Tear out her heart — kill, kill with 

knife or venom 
One of his slanderous harlots.' 

' None of such .' ' 
I love her none the more. Tut, the 

chance gone. 
She lives— but not 

is gain'd. 
O I, that thro' 

King Louis 
Scorning his monkery, — I that wedded 

Henry, 
Honoring his manhood — will he not 

mock at me 
The jealous fool balk'd of her will — 

with him ? 
But he and he must never meet 

Reginald Fitzurse I 

Re-enter FiTZURSE. 
Filzurse. Here, Madam, 

pleasure. 

Eleanor. My pleasure is to have a 
man about me. 
Why did you slink away so like a cur .' 
Filzurse. Madam, I am as much 
man as the King. 
Madam, I fear Church-censures like 
your King. 
Eleanor. He grovels to the Church 
when he's black-blooded, 
But kinglike fought the proud arch- 
bishop,— kmglike 
Defied the Pope, aiid, like his kingly 

sires. 
The Normans, stri' 

or bind 
The spiiitual gian 

.•\nd customs, made me for the 
moment proud 



your 





Ev-n of iliat stale Clvardi-b 


ond which 


liiik'd me witli him 




To bear him kingly soiib. 


I am not 


so sure 




But that I love him still. 


Thou as 


much man ! 




No more of that ; we will 


to France 


and be 




Keforehand with the King 


and brew 


from out 




This Godstow-Becket lute 


rmeddling 


such 




A strong hate-philtre as m 


y madden 


h.m-madden 




Against his priest beyond 


all helle- 



Henry, Roger of York. Foliot, 
JocELYN OK Salisbury. 

Roger of York: Nay, nay, my liege. 
He rides abroad with armed followers. 
Hath broken all his promises to thy- 
self. 
Cursed and an.itheniatized us right 

and left. 
ijtirr'd up a party there against your 

son — 
Henry. Roger of York, you always 

hated him, 
Even when you both were boys at 

Theobald's. 
Roger of Yorit. I always hated 

boundless arrogance. 
In mine own cause I strove against 

him there. 
And in thy cause I strive against him 

Henry. I cannot think he moves 

against my son. 
Knowing right well with what a 

tenderness 
He loved my son. 
Roger of 'York. Before you made 

him king. 
But Becket ever moves against a king. 
The Church is all— the crime to be a 

king. 





We trust your Royal Grace, lord of 

more land 
Than any crown in Europe, will not 

yield 

To lay your neck beneath your citi- 
zen's heel. 
Henry. Not to a Gregory of my 

throning ! No. 
Foliot. My royal liege, in aiming 

at your love, 
It may be sometimes I have overshot 
My duties to our Holy Mother 

Church, 
Tho' all the world allows I fall no 

inch 
Behind this Becket, rather go beyond 
In scourgings, macerations, mortify- 

ings. 
Fasts, disciplines that clear the spir- 
itual eye. 
And break the soul from earth. Let 

all that be. 
I boast not : but you know thro' all 

this quarrel 
I still have cleaved to the crown, in 

hope the crown 
Would cleave to me that but obey'd 

the crown. 
Crowning your son ; for which our 

loyal service. 
And since we likewise swore to obev 

the customs, 
York and 



If, and our good Salis- 
comm union of 



Are push'd fron 
the Church. 
Jocelyn of Salisbury. Becket hath 
trodden on us like worms, my 
liege; 
Trodden one half dead ; one half, but 

half-alive. 
Cries to the King. 

Henry {aside). Take care o" thv- 

self, O King. 
Jocelyn of Salisbury. Being so 
crush'd and so humiliated 
We scarcely dare to bless the food 

we eat 
Because of Becket. 
Henrv. What would ye have me 

do.' 
Roger of York. Summon your 
barons ; take their counsel : yet 





know — could swear — as Ion 

Becket breathes, 
Your Grace will never have one 

hour. 
H,-nyy. What? ... Ay . . 

pray you do not work 



jpon 



I see your drift . . . it may be so . . . 

and yet 
You know me easily anger'd. Will 

you hence ? 
He shall absolve you . . . you shall 

have redress. 
I have a dizzying headache. Let' me 

I'll call you by and bv. 

{Exeunt Roger of York, Foliot, 

<;«(/ Jocelyn of Salisbury. 

Would he were dead ! I have lost all 

love for him. 
If God would take him in some sud- 
den way — 
Would he were dead. \_Lies dmuii. 

Pi!ge [enuring). My liege, the 

Queen of England. 
Henry. God's eyes ! [Starting uf. 

Enter EleaNOR. 
Eleanor. Of England .> Say of 

Aquitaine. 
I am no Queen of England. I had 

dream'd 
I was the bride of England, and a 
queen. 
Henry. And,- 



Stirring her baby-king against me ? 



Eleanor. The brid 


^les.. 


Becke 


is 


thv kini; and m 








I will go lire and die 


1 A 


luitaine 




Henrv. Except I 


clap 


thee into 


prison here. 








Lest thou shouldst ]i 


av 


he wan 


on 


there a^ain. 








Ha, vou of Aquitaii 


e ! 


t) you 


of 


■ Aquitaine ! 








You were but Aquita 


me 


to Loui 


s — 


no wife ; 








You are only Aquita 


ne 


me— 


no 


wife. ' 










Eleanor. And why, my lord, should 
I be wife to one 
That only wedded me for Aquitaine .' 
Yet this no wife — her six and thirty 




Eng- 



Of Provence blew you 

lish throne ; 
And this no wife has born you four 

brave sons, 
And one of them at least is like to 

1 thou 

Ay— 
e tiim 



-I ho 



mme. 
But thou art like enough to make 
him thine. 
Eleanor. Becket is like enough to 

make all his. 
Henry. IWethought I had recover'd 
of the Becket, 
That all was planed and bevell'd 

smooth again. 
Save from some hateful cantrip of 
thine own. 
Eleanor. I will go live and die in 



I dream'd I was the consort of a 

king, 
Not one whose back his priest has 

broken. 
Henry. What ! 

Is the end come? You, will you 

crown my foe 
My victor in mid-battle ? I will be 
Sole master of my house. The end 

is mine. 
What game, what juggle, what 

devilry are you playing ? 
Why do you thrust this' Becket on 

me'again ? 
Eleanor. Why? for I a?n true 

wife, and fcave my fears 
Lest Becket thrust you even from 

your throne. 
Do you know this cross, my liege ? 
Henrv (turning his head). Away! 

Not I. 
Eleanor. Not ev'n the central dia- 
mond, worth, I think, 
Half of the Antioch whence I had it. 
Henry. That ? 





';-. I gave it you, and you 
ur paramour ; 

Is it back, as being dead to 
earth, 

So dead henceforth to you. 
Henry. Dead ! you have murder'd 
her, 
Found out her secret bower and mur- 
der'd her. 
Eleanor. Your Becket knew the 

secret of vour bower. 
Henry (calliu'goul). Ho there ! thy 

rest of life is hopeless prison. 
Eleanor. And what would my own 
Aquitaine say to that ? 
First, free thy captive from her hope- 
less prison. 
Henry. O devil, can I free her 

from the grave ? 
Eleanor. You are too tragic : both 
of us are players 
In such a comedy as our court of Prov- 
ence 
Had laugh'd at. That's a delicate 

Latin lay 
Of Walter Map: the lady holds the 

cleric 
Lovelier than any soldier, his poor 



A crown of Empire. Will you have 
it again.' 
( Offering the cross. He dashes it 

St. Cupid, that is too irreverent. 
Then mine once more. (Pnts tt on.) 

Your cleric hath your lady. 
Nay, what uncomely faces, could lie 

see you ! 
Foam at the mouth because King 

Thomas, lord 
Not only of your vassals but 

Thro' chastest honor of the Deca- 
logue 

Hath used the full authority of his 
Church 

To put her into Godstow nunnery. 
~^enry. To put her into Godstow 
nunnery ! 

He dared not — liar! yet, yet I remem- 



put her i 





Hellstow, Devil- 

The Church! the Church! 
God's eyes! I would the Church 
were down in hel ! {Exit. 

Eleanor. Aha ! 

Enter the four Kniohts. 

Fitzurse. What made the King cry 
out so furiously .'' 

Eleanor. Our Becket, who will not 
absolve the Bishops. 
I think ve four have cause to love 
this Becket. 

Fitzurse. I hate him for his inso- 
lence to all. 

De Tracy. And I for all his inso- 
lence to thee. 

De Brito. I hate him for I hate 
him is my reason. 
And yet I hate him for a hypocrite. 

De Morvtlle. 1 do not love him, 
for he did his best 
To break the barons, and now braves 
the King. 

Eleanor. Strike, then, at once, the 
King would have hnn — See ! 



Re-enter Henry. 




Henry. No man to love r 


ne, honor 


me, obey me ! 




Sluggards and fools ! 




The slave that eat mv b 


ead has 


kick'd his King I 
The dog I cramm'd with 




dainties 


worried me ! 




The fellow that on a lame ja 


de came 


to court. 




A ragged cloak for saddle— he, he. 



To shake my throne, to push into my 
chamber — 

My bed, where ev'n the slave is priv- 
ate—he— 

I'll have her out again, he shall 
absolve 

The bishops — they but did my will — 
not you — 

Sluggards and fools, why do you 
stand and stare .' 

You are no King's m 
you are Becket 





Down with King Henry! 

the Archbishop ! 
Will no man free me from this pesti- 
lent priest? [£xi/. 
[ The Knights draiv their swords. 
Eleanor. Are ye king's men? I 

am king's woman, I. 
The Knii;hts. King's men ! King's 
men ! 



Becket and John ok Salisbury. 

Becket. York said so ? 
John of SiiUshury. Yes : a man 
may take good counsel 
Ev'n from his foe. 

Becket. York will say anything. 

What is he saying now ? gone to the 

King 
And taken our anathema with him. 

York ! 
Can the Kintr de-anathematize this 
York? 
John of Salisbury. Thomas, I 
would thou hadst return'd to 
England, 
Like some wise prince of this world 

from his wars. 
With more of olive-branch and am- 
nesty 
For foes at home — thou hast raised 
the world against thee. 
Becket. Why, John, my kingdom 

is not of this world. 
John of Salislmry. If it were more 
of this world it might be 
More of the next. A policy of wise 

jjardon 
Wins here as well as there. To bless 

thine enemies 

Becket. Av, mine, not Heaven's. 
John of Saiislmry. And may there 
not be something 
Of this world's leaven in thee too, 

when crying 
On Holy Church to thunder out her 

righte 
And thine own wrong so pitilessly? 
Ah, Thomas, 




ightnings th: 

Flash sometimes ( 
the he 

The soldier, when he let: 
self go 

Lost in the common good, the com- 
mon wrong. 

Strikes truest ev'n for his own self. 
I crave 

Thy pardon — I have still thy leave to 
speak. 

Thou hast waged God's war against 
the King ; and yet 

We are self-uncertain creatures, and 



our spites 
And private hates with our defence of 
Heaven. 

Enter EDWARD Grim. 
Becket. Thou art but yesterday 
from Cambridge, Grim ; 
What say ye there of Becket? 

Grim. I believe him 

The bravest in our roll of Primates 

down 
From^ Austin — there are some — for 
' there are men 

Of canker'd judgment everywhere 

Becket. ' Who hold 

With York, with York against me. 

Grim. Well, my lord, 

A stranger monk desires access to 

you. 

Becket. York against Canterbury, 

York against God ! 

I am open to him. [Exit Grim. 



Ente. 



.IND 



Monk. 
I speak with ; 



Rosamund. C 
Alone, my father 
Becket. Come you to confess ? 

Rosamund. Not now. 
Becket. Then speak ; thi.s 

is my other self. 
Who like my conscience never lets 
me be. 
liosoinund [thrmoing back the , ,w/). 
I know him; our good John of 
Salisburv. 





Breaking already from thy 
;iate 
To plunge into this bitter world 

again- 
These wells of Marah. I am grieved, 

my daughter. 
I thought that I had made a peace for 

thee. 
KosamiiiuL Small peace was mine 

in my noviciate, father. 
Thro' all closed doors a dreadful 

whisper crept 
That thouwouldst excommunicate the 

King. 
I could not eat, sleep, pray : I had 

with me 
The monk's disguise thou gavest me 

for my bower : 
I think our Abbess knew it and allow'd 

I fled, and found thy name a charm to 

?'ood, roof, and rest. I met a robber 

once, 
I told him I was bound to see the 

Archbishop; 
' Pass on,' he said, and in thy name I 

pass'd 
From house to house. In one a son 

stone-blind 
Sat by his mother's hearth : he had 

gone too far 
Into the King's own woods ; and the 

poor mother, 
Soon as she learnt I was a friend of 

thine. 
Cried out against the cruelty of the 

King. 
I said it was the King's courts, not 

the King ; 
But she would not believe me, and she 

wish'd 
The Church were king: she had seen 

the .'\rchbishop once. 
So mild, so kind. The people love 

thee, father. 
Beckct. Alas! when I was Chan- 
cellor to the King, 
1 fear 1 was as cruel as the King. 

■ Cruel? Oh, no— it is 
he; 





Rosa7niiniL My lord, you have not 
excommunicated him? 
Oh, if you have, absolve him ! 

Bccket. Daughter, daughter. 

Deal not with things you know not. 

Rosamund. Wnow him. 

Then you have done it, and I call you 
cruel. 
JoJin of Salisbury. No, daughter, 
you mistake our good Arch- 
bishop ; 
For once in France the King had 

been so harsh. 
He thought to excommunicate him — 

Thomas, 
You could not — old affection master'd 

You falter'd into tears. 
Kosamuuil. Cod bless him for 



' The King is sick and almost unto 

How could I excommunicate him then? 
Rosamund. And wilt thou excom- 
municate him now? 
Beckct. Daughter, my time is short, 
I shall not do it. 
And were it longer — well — I should 
not do it. 
Rosamund. Thanks in this life, 

and in the life to come. 
Becket. Get thee back to thy nun- 
nery with all haste ; 
Let this be thy last trespass. But 

one question — 
How fares thy pretty boy, the little 

Geoffrey ? 
No fever, cough, croup, sickness ? 

Rosamund. No, but saved 

From all that by our solitude. The 

plagues 
That smite the city spare the solitudes. 
Becket. God save him from all 
sickness of the soul ! 
Thee too, thy solitude among thy 

Mav that save thee I Doth he remem- 





rraiit him. 
Bccket. He is marvellously like 

thee. 
Rosamund. Liker the King. 
Becket. No, daughter. 

Rosiuiiuiid. Ay, but wait 

Till his nose rises ; he will be very 
kiim. 
Bc:Lt. Ev'n so : but think not of 

the King: farewell! 
RosamiiiiJ. My lord, the city is full 

uf armed men. 
Becket. Ev'n so : farewell ! 
Rosamund. I will but pass to ves- 
pers. 
And breathe one prayer for my liege- 
lord the King, 
His child and mine own soul, and so 

Becket. Pray for me too: much 
need of prayer have I. 

(Rosamund kneels and f;ocs. 
Dan John, how much we lose, we celi- 
bates, 
Lacking the love of woman and of 
child. 
John of Salisbury. More gain than 
loss; for of your wives you shall 
Find one a slut whose fairest linen 



Foul as he 



t-cloth, if she used 



So charged with tongue, that every 

thread of thought 
Is broken ere it joins — a shrew to 

boot. 
Whose evil song far on into the 

night 
Thrills to the topmost tile — no hope 

but death ; 
One slow, fat, white, a burthen of the 

hearth ; 
And one that being thwarted ever 

swoons 
And weeps herself into the place of 

power ; 
And one an uxor pauperis Ibyct. 
So rare the household honeymaking 

bee, 
Man's help ! but we, we have the 

Blessed Virgin 
For worship, and our Mother Church 

for bride ; 





And all the souls we sav 

father'd here 
Will greet us as our babes 

dise. 
What noise was that.' she told us of 

Here in the city. Will you not with- 
draw .' 
Becket. I once was out with Henry 
in the days 

When Henry loved me, and we came 
upon 

A wild-fowl sitting on her nest, so 



lid touch'd ; she 
and 



still 
I reach'd my hand 

did not stir; 
The snow had frozen round he 

she sat 
Stone-dead upon, a heap of ice-cold 

eggs- 
Look! how this love, this mother, 

runs thro' all 
The world God made — even the beast 

—the bird ! 
John of Salisbury. Ay, still a lover 

of the beast and bird ? 
But these arm'd men — will you not 

hide yourself .' 
Perchance the fierce De Brocs from 

Saltwood Castle, 
To assail our Holy Mother lest she 

brood 
Too long o'er this hard egg, the 

world, and send 
Her whole heart's heat into it, till it 

break 
Into young angels. Pray you, hide 

yourself. 
Becket. There was a little fair- 

hair'd Norman maid 
Lived in my mother's house: if Rosa- 

The world's rose, as her name imports 

her — she 
Was the world's lily. 
John of Salisbury. Ay, and what of 

Becket. She died of leprosy. 
John of Salisbury. I know not why 
You call these old things back again, 
my lord. 
Becket. The drowning man, they 
say, remembers all 





The chances of his life, just ere he 
dies. 
John of Salisbury. Ay — but these 
arni'd men — will yau drown 
yourself? 
He loses half the meed of martyrdom 
Who will be martyr when he might 
escape. 
Becket. What day of the week f 

Tuesday .' 
John of Salisbury. Tuesday, my 

lord. 
Becket. On a Tuesday was I born, 
and on a Tuesday 
Baptized ; and on a Tuesday did I fly 
Forth from Northampton ; on a Tues- 
day pass'd 
From England into bitter banish- 



ment ; 


Not scorn him for the foibles of his 


On a Tuesday at Pontigny came to 


youth. 


me 


What ! you would make his coronation 


The ghostly warning of my martyr- 


void 


dom; 


By cursing those who crown'd hnn. 


On a Tuesday from mine exile I re- 


Out upon you ! 



And on a Tuesday 

[Tracy enters, then Fitzurse, De 
Brito, and De Morville. Monks 
following. 

— on a Tuesday Tracy ! 

(A long silence broken by Fitzurse 

saying, conle?nptuously), 
God help thee ! 
Jo/in of Salisbury (aside). How the 
good Archbishop reddens ! 
He never yet could brook the note of 
scorn. 
Fitzurse. My lord, we bring a mes- 
sage from the King 
Beyond the water ; will you have it 

alone, 
Or with these listeners near you ? 
Bectet. As you will. 

Fitzurse. Nay, ^s you will. 
Bcciet. Nay, asyou will. 

John of Salisbury. Why then 

Better perhaps to speak with them 
apart, 
-et us withdraw. 

[All i^o out except the four Knights 
atul Becket. 
Fitzurse. We are all alone with 





Shall I not smite him with his own 
cross-staff .' 
De Morville. No, look ! the door is 

open : let him be. 
Fitzurse. The King condemns your 

excommunicating 

Becket. This is no secret, but a 
public matter. 
In here again ! 

[John of Salisbury <?«(/ Monks re- 

Now, sirs, the King's commands ! 
Fitzurse. The King beyond the 
water, thro' our voices, 
Commands you to be dutiful and 

leal 
To your young King on this side of 
the water, 



ccket. Reginald, all men know I 

loved the Prince. 
His father gave him to my care, and I 
Became his second father ; he had his 

faults. 
For which I would have laid mine 

own life down 
To help him from them, since indeed 

I loved him. 
And love him ne.xt after my lord his 

father. 
Rather than dim the splendor of his 

crown 
I fain would treble and quadruple it 
With revenues, realms, and golden 

provinces 
So that were done in equity. 
. Fitzurse. You have broken 

Your bond of peace, your treaty with 

the King — 
Wakening such brawls and loud dis- 
turbances 
In England, that he calls you oversea 
To answer for it in his Norman 



Becket. Prate not of bone 
never, oh, never again 
.Shall the waste voice of the bond- 
breaking sea 





Becket. 



Divide me from the mother church of 

England, 
My Canterbury. Loud disturbances ! 
Oh, ay — the bells rang out even to 

deafening. 
Organ and pipe, and dulcimer, chants 

and hymns 
In all the churches, trumpets in the 

halls, 
Sobs, laughter, cries : they spread 

their raiment down 
Before me — would have made my 

pathway flowers, 
Save that it 'was mid-winter in the 

But full mid-summer in those honest 
hearts. 
Fitziirse. The King commands you 
to absolve the bi.shops 
Whom you have excommunicated. 

Becket. I .' 

Not I, the Pope. Ask him for abso- 
lution. 
Fitzurse. But vou advised the 

Pope. 
Beeiet. And so I did. 

They have but to submit. 

The four Knights. The King com- 
mands you. 
We are all King's men. 
Becket. King's men at least 

should know 
That their own King closed with me 

last July 
That I should pass the censures of the 

Church 
On those that crown'd young Henry 

in this realm. 
And trampled on the rights of Can- 
terbury. 
Fitzurse. What ! dare you charge 
the King with treachery? 
He sanction thee to excommunicate 
The prelates whom he chose to crown 
his son I 
Becket. I spake no word of treach- 
ery, Reginald. 
3ut for the truth of this I make 
appeal 
ill the archbishops, bishops, pre- 





Nay, you yourself were there : you 
heard yourself. 
Filzurse. I was not there. 
Becket. I saw you there. 

Fitzurse. I was not. 

Becket. You were. I never forget 

anything. 
Fitzurse. He makes the King a 
traitor, me a liar. 
How long shall we forbear him .' 

John of Salisburv (drawing Becket 
aside.) O my good lord. 

Speak with them privately on this 

hereafter. 
You see they have been revelling, and 

I fear 
Are braced and brazened up with 

Christmas wines 
For any murderous brawl. 

Becket. And yet they prate 

Of mine, ray brawls, when those, that 

name themselves 
Of the King's part, have broken down 

our barns. 
Wasted our diocese, outraged our ten- 
ants, 
Lifted our produce, driven our clerics 

Why they, vour friends, those ruffians, 
the De Brocs, 

They stood on Dover beach to mur- 
der me. 

They slew my stags in mine own 
manor here, 

Mutilated, poor brute, mv sun.ijter- 
mule. 



Plunder'd the vessel full 


of Gascon 




wine, 




The old King's present. 


carried off 


the casks, 




Kill'd half the crew, du 


igeon'd the 


other half 




In Pevensey Castle 




De Mondlle. Why i 


ot rather 


then, 




If this be so, complain lu 


your young 


Kmg, 




Not punish of vour own ai 


thoritv ? T 


Becket. Mine enemies 


ban'd all 




access to the boy. 






Tht- knew he loved me. 






Hug.,, Iluirh, h.nv proudl 


■ you exalt 




your head 1 


M 






nhen they seek to overturn our 

rights, 
1 ask no leave of king, or mortal man, 
I'm set them straight again. Alone I 

do it. 
(Jive to the King the things that are 

the King's, 
.And those of (Jod to God. 
Filzursc. Threats! threats! 

ye hear him. 
What!' will he excommunicate all the 

world } 
I The Knights conu round Becket. 
Di Tnuy. He shall not. 
D,- Brtto. Well, as yet— 

I should be grateful — 
He hath not excommunicated mc. 
fiicket. Because thou wast Iwrn ex- 
communicate. 
I never spied in thee one gleam of 

grace. 
De Brito. Your Christian's Chris- 
tian charity ! 

Bcikct. By St. Denis 

Dc Brilo. Ay, by St. Denis, now 

will he flame out. 
And lose his head as old .St. Denis 

did. 
Beiket. Ye think to scare me from 

my loyalty 
To God and to the Holy Father. 

No! 
Tho' all the swords in England flash'd 

above me 
Ready to fall at Henry's word or 

yours — 
Tho' all the loud-lung'd trumpets 

upon earth 
Blared from the heights of all the 

thrones of her kings. 
Blowing the world against me, I would 

stand 
Clothed with the full authority of 

Rome, 
Mail'd in the perfect panoply of faith, 
First of the foremost of their files, who 

die 
For God, to people heaven in the 

great day 
When God makes up his jewels. 

Once I fled— 




nd 



at 




Ye know what is 
have sworn 
Yourselves my men when 

cellor— 
My vassals — and yet threaten your 

Archbishop 
In his own house. 
Knights. Nothing can be between 
us 
That goes against our fealty to the 
King. 
Filzurse. And in his name we 
charge you that ye keep 
This traitor from escaping. 

Bickei. Rest you easy. 

For I am easy to keep. I shall not 

fly- 
Here, here, here will you find mc. 

Dl- Mon-ilU. Know you not 

You have spoken to the peril of your 
life .' 
Becket. As I shall speak again. 
Fitzursc, De Tracy, ami Be Brito. 
To arms ! 
[TAcy rush out, iJe iMorville 
linticrs. 
Becket. De Morville, 

I had thought so well of you ; and 



least assassin ol the 
nn yourself for corn- 



Vou seem the 

four. 
Oh, do not da 

pany ! 
Is it too late for me to save your 

soul ? 
I pray you for one moment stay and 
speak. 
De Morville. Becket, it is too late. 
{Exit. 
Becket. Is it too late .> 

Too late on earth may be too soon in 
• hell. 
Knights (in the distance). Close 
the great gate — ho, there — 
upon the town. 
Bccket's Retainers. Shut the hall- 
doors. \A pause. 
Becket. You hear them, brother 
John ; 
Why do you stand so silent, brother 
John .> 
John of Salisbury. For I was mus- 
ing on an ancient saw. 





Suavilcr in jnodo,fortUer in re. 

Is strength less strong when hand-in- 

hand with grace ? 
Cratior in pulchro corpore -irliis. 

Thomas, 
\V liy should you heat yourself for such 

as these ? 
Bcckit. Methought I answer'd 

moderately enough. 
John ofSiiUshury. As one that blows 

the coal to cool the fire. 
My lord, I marvel why you never 

lean 
On any man's advising but your own. 
Bccket. Is it so, Dan Jolin } well, 

what should I have done .^ 
John of Salislmry. You should have 

taken counsel with your friends 
Before these bandits brake into your 

presence. 
Tliey seek — you make — occasion for 



your 



death. 



Bcckct. My counsel is already 
taken, John. 
I am prepared to die. 
Jo/tn of Salisbury. We are sinners 

The best of all not all-prepared to 
die. 
B.cket. God's will be done ! 
J.'hu of Salislmry. Ay, well. 

God's will be done ! 
Grim (re-entering). My lord, tile 
knights are arming in the gar- 
den 
Beneath the sycamore. 

Btcket. ' Good ! let them arm. 
Grim. And one of the Ue Brocs is 
with them, Robert, 
The apostate monk that was with Ran- 

dulf here. 
He knows the twists and turnings of 
the place. 
Beeket. No fear I 
Glim. No fear, my lord. 

{^Crashes on the hall-doors. The 
Monks_/7«. 
Becket. {rising). Our dovecote 
flown ! 
: cannot tell why monks should all be 
cowards. 
John of Silislmry. Take refuge in 
your own cathedral, Thomas. 





Beeket. Do they not f:ght 
Great Fiend day by day ? 
Valor and holy life should 



Why should all monks be cowards .' 

John of Salisbury. Are they so ? 

I say, take refuge in your own cathe- 
dral. 
Becket. Ay, but I told them I 

would wait them here. 
Grim. May they not say you dared 
not show yourself 
In your old place ? and vespers are 
beginning. 
\Bell rings for vespers till end of 



nd the office, give 
they dread they 



Vou should att 

them hcai 

They fear you s 

know not what. 
Becket. Ay, monks, not men. 
Grim. I am a monk, my lord. 

Perhaps, my lord, you wrong us. 
Some would stand by you to the death. 
Becket. Your pardon . 

John of Salisbury. He said, 'Attend 

the office.' 
Becket. Attend the office ? 

Why then— The Cross !— who bears 

my Cross before me ? 
Methought they would have brain'd 
me with it, John. [Grim takes it. 
Grim. II Would that I could 

bear thy cross indeed ! 
Becket. The Mitre I 
John of Salisbury. Will you wear 
it .'—there I 

[Becket /K/J on the mitre. 
Becket. The Pall I 

I go to meet my King ! 

[Puts on the pall. 

Grim. To meet the Kmg ? 

\Crashes on the doors as they go out. 

John of Salisbury. Why do you 

move with such a stateliness ? 

Can you not hear them yonder like a 

storm. 
Battering the doors, and breaking thro' 
the walls .' 
Becket. Why do the heathen rage ? 
My two good friends. 
What matters murder'd here, i 
der'd there > 





And yet my dream foretold my 
martyrdom 

I church. It is God's will. 



me not. We must 



Oil the right hand a flight of steps lead- 
ing to the Choir, another flight on 
t/ie left, leading to the North Aisle. 
Winter afternoon slowly darkening. 
Low thunder now and then of an 
approaching storm. MoNKS heard 
chanting the service. Rosamund 
kneeling. 

Rosamund. O blessed saint, O 
glorious Benedict, — 
These arm'd men in the city, these 

fierce faces — 
Thy holy follower founded Canter- 
bury — 
Save that dear head which now is 

Canterbury, 
Save him, he saved my life, he saved 

my child. 
Save liim, his blood would darken 

Henry's name ; 
Save him till all as saintly as thv- 

self 
He miss the searching flame of purga- 
tory, 
And pass at once perfect to Paradise. 
{Noise of steps and voices in the 
cloisters. 
Hark ! Is it they ? Coming ! He 

is not here — 
Not yet, thank heaven. O save him ! 
( Goes up steps leading to choir. 
Beckct (entering, forced along by 
John of Salishnry and Grim). 
No, I tell you ! 
I cannot bear a hand upon my person. 
Why do vou force me thus against 
my'will? 

My lord, we force you from 
your enemies. 
Becket. As you would force a king 
from being crown'd. 





an I 



Back, 



John of Salisbury. 

force the crown of martyrdom. 
\Service slops. Monks c 
from the stairs that lead to the 
choir. 
Monks. Here is the great Arch- 
, bishop ! He lives ! he lives ! 
Die with him, and be glorified to- 
gether. 
Becket. Together ? ... get 
you back ! go on with the 
office. 
Monks. Come, then, with us to 

vespers. 
Becket. Ho 

When you so block the < 

I saj- ! 
Go on with the office. Shall not 

Heaven be served 
Tho' earth's last earthquake clash'd 

the minster-bells. 
And the great deeps were broken 

up again, 
And hiss'd against the sun ? 

\Noise m the cloisters. 
Monks. The murderers, hark! 

Let us hide I let us hide ! 
Becket. What do these people 

fear .' 
Monks. Those arm'd men in the 

cloister. 
Beckct. Be not such cravens ! 

I will go out and meet them. 

Grim and others. Shut the doors! 
We will not have him slain before our 
face. 
[ They close the doors oj the tran- 
sept. Knocking. 
Fly, fly, my lord, before they burst the 
doors. [Knocking. 

Becket. Why, these are our own 
monks who follow 'd us ! 
And will vou bolt them out, and have 

them slain .» 
L'ndo the doors : the church is not a 

castle : 
Knock, and it shall be open'd. Are 

you deaf? 
What, have I lost authority among 

.Stand by, make way ! 

Opens the do&rs. Enter Monks 
from cloister. 





Come in, my friends, coine in ! 
Nay, faster, faster ! 

Monks. Oh, my lord Archbishop, 
A score of knights all arm'd with 

swords and axes — 
To the choir, to the choir ! 

[Monks divide, part flyinf^ by Ihe 
stairs on the right, part by those 
on the left. The rush of these 
last bears Becket along iiiith 
them some -amy up the steps, 
where he is left standing alone. 
Becket. Shall 1 too pass to the 
choir, j 

And die upon the Patriarchal thnm:- j 
Of all mv predecessors ? 
fohii 'of Salishiiiy. No, to the 
crypt ! 
Twenty steps down. Stnmble not in 

the darkness. 
Lest they should seize thee. 

Grim. To the crypt .' no — no. 

To the chapel of St. Blaise beneath 
the roof ! | 

John of Salisbury {pointing upward i 
and downward). That way, or 
this ! Save thyself either way. 
Beeket. Oh, no, not either way, 
nor any way 
Save bv that way which leads thro' 

night to light. 
Not twenty steps, but one. 
And fear not I should stumble in the 

darkness, 
Not tho' it be their hour, the power 

of darkne.ss. 
But my hour too, the power of light 

in darkness ! 
1 am not in the darkness but the 

light, 
Seen by the Church in Heaven, the 

Church on earth — 
Tilt) power of life in death to make 
her free ! 
\E liter the four Knights. John 
of Salisbury //« to the altar of 
St. Benedict. 
Filzitrse. Here, here. King's men ! 
[Catches hold of the last/lying Monk. 
Where is the traitor Becket ? 
Monk. I am not he ! I am not he. 



ideed ! 





Fitzurse. Hence to the fiend '■ 

[Pushes him away. 

Where is this treble traitor to the 

King .> 

De Tracy. Where is the Arch 

bishop, Thomas Becket ^ 

Becket. Here. 

No traitor to the King, but Priest of 

God, 
Primate of England. 

[Descending into the transept. 
I am he ye seek. 
What would ye have of me? 

Fitzurse. Your life. 

De Tracy. Your life. 

De Mon'ille. Save that you will 

absolve the bishops. 
Becket. Never,— 

Except they make submission to the 

Church. 
You had my answer to that cry be- 

De Morville. Why, then you are a 

dead man ; flee ! 
Becket. I will not. 

I am readier to be slain, than thou to 

slay. 
Hugh, I know well thou hast but half 

a heart 
To bathe this sacred pavement with 

my blood. 
God pardon thee and these, but God's 

full curse 
Shatter you all to pieces if ye harm 
One of my flock ! 

Fitzurse. Was not the great gate 
shut? 
Thev are thronging in to ve.spers — 

' half the town. 
We shall be overwhelm'd. Seize 

him and carry him ! 
Come with us — nay — thou art our pris- 
oner — conie ! 
De Morville. Ay, make him pris- 
oner, do not harm the man. 
[Fitzurse lays hold of the Arch- 
bishop's pall. 
Becket. Touch me not ! 
De Brito. How the good 

priest gods himself! 
He is not yet ascended to the Father. 
Fitzurse. I will not only touch, but 
drag thee hence. 





Becket. Thou art vwj iban, thou 
art my vassal. AwaJ- ! 
[Flings him off till he reels, id- 
most to falling. 
' ' Tracy (lays hold of the pall). 
rome ; as he said, thou art our 
•).-isoner. 
R,^.< . Down! 

[ Throws him headlong. 
F.'t':.: ' ■'* {advances -with dragon 
nivd). I told thee that I 
snould remember thee ! 
Becket. Profligate pander I 
Fitziirse. Do you hear that ? 

strikf, strike. 
\Stri,\es off the Archbishop's 
mitre, and wounds him in the 
forehetfd. 
Becket (covers his eyes with his 
hand). 
I do cotnmend my cause to God, the 

Virgin, 
St Denis of France and St. Alphege 

of England, 
And all the tutelar Saints of Canter- 
liury. 
[Grim wraps his arms about the 
Archbishop. 
S|jare this defence, dear brother. 

[Tracy has arisen, and approaches, 
hesitatingly, with his sword 
raised. 
Fitzurse. Strike him, Tracy ! 

Rosamund (rushing down steps 
from the choir). No, No, No, 
No! . 
Fitzurse. This wanton here. De 
Morville, 
Hold her away. 

De Morville. I hold her. 
Rosamund (held back by De Morville, 
and stretching out her arms). 

Mercy, mercy, 
.\s you would hope for mercy. 

Fitzurse. Strike, I sav. 

Grim. O God, O noble knights, O 

sacrilege ! 
Strike our .Arclihishop in his own ca- 
thedral : 





The Pope, the King, will 

the whole world 
Abhor you ; ye will die the death of 

dogs ! 
Nay, nay, good Tracy. 

[Lifts his arm. 

Fitzurse. Answer not, but strike. 

De Tracy. There is my answer 

then. 

[Sword falls on Grim's arm, and 

glances from it, 7i'0ttnding 

Becket. 

Grim. Mine arm is sever'd. 

1 can no more — fight out the good 

fight — die 
Conqueror. 

[Staggers into the chapel of St. Benedict. 

Becket (falling on his knees). At 

the right hand of Power — 

Power and great glory — for thv 

Church, O Lord— ' 
Into Thy hands. O Lord— into Thv 

hands ! [Sniks prone. 

De Brito. This last to rid thee of a 
world of brawls I ( Kill. 



Th 



h,m.) 
traitor's dead, and 
more. 
Fitzurse. Nay, havt 



we stil'.'d 
him? 

What ! the great Archbishop ! 
Does he breathe ? No ? 

De Tracy. No, Reginald, he is 

dead. [Storm bursts.^ 

De Morville. Will the earth gape 

and swallow us .> 
De Brito. The deed's done— 

Away ! 

[De Brito, De Tracv, Fitzurse, 
rush out, crying * A'ing^s men .' ' 
De Morville follvivs sloivty. 
Flashes of lightning thro' the 
Cathedral. Rosamund seen 
kneeling by the body of Becket. 



tdous titunderstorm aciunllv 





THE CUP: 

A TRAGEDY. 

DRAMA TIS PERSONS. 
GALATIANS. 




ex-Telrarch. 
Titrarck. 


Maid. 
PH.EBE. 

Camma, wi/t 0/ Sinnatus, a/tmvar rf, 
Prifstess in the TcmfU 0/ ArUmU. 




ROMANS. 


Roman Genera/. 


1 .\-abUman. 



ff the curtain rises. Priestesses are 
heard sin^ng in the Temple. Boy 
discovered 0/1 a pathivay among 
Mocks, picking grcipes. A party of 
Roman Soldiers, guarding a pris- 
oner in chains, come down the path- 
wav and exeunt. 



id). Sa,g- 

.Synorix. Pine, beech and plane, 

oak, walnut, aj>ricot, 
Vine, cypress, poplar, myrtle, bower- 

ing-in 
'I'he city where she dwells. .She past 

me here 
! hree years ago when I was flying 

My Tetrarchy to Rome. I almost 

touch'd her — 
.\ maiden slowly moving on to music 
\in<ing her maidens to ihis Temple — 

OGods! 
.Mie is my fate — else wherefore has 

my fate 
ght me again to her own city .' — 

married 
:— married .Sinnatus, the Tetrarch 




Koi 



Or slay him. I may trust to gain her 

then 
When 1 shall have my tetrarchy re 

stored 
By Rome, our mistress, grateful thai 

I show'd her 
The weakness and the dissonance of 

our clans, 
And how to crush them easily. 

Wretched race ! 
And once I wish'd to scourge them to 

the bones. 
But in this narrow breathing-time of 

life 
Is vengeance for its own sake worth 

the while. 
If once our ends aregain'd .' and now 

this cup — 
1 never felt such passion for a woman. 
[Brings otit a cup and scroll from 

under his cloak. 
What have I written to her.> 

[Reading the scroll. 
'To the admired l,'amma, wife of 
Sinnatus, the Tetrarcli, i>ne who years 
ago, himself an adorer of our great 
goddess, Artemis, beheld you afar off 
worshipping in her Temple, and loved 
you for it, sends you this cup rescued 
from the burning of one of her shrines 
in a city thro' which he past with tht- 
Roman army : it is the cup we use in 
our marriages. Receive it from one 
who cannot at present write himself 
other than 
'A Galatian serving by forck 

IN THE Roman Region.' 

[ Turns and looks up to Boy. 





The Cup. 



Hoy, dost thou know the house of 
.Sinnatus ? 
/>in'. These grapes are for the 
house of Sinnatus — 
Close to the Temple. 
Synorix. Yonder ? 

Boy. Yes. 

Synorix {aside). That I 

With all my range of women should 

yet shun 
To meet her face to face at once ! 
Mv boy, 
\Boy comes down rocks to him. 
Take thou this letter and this cup to 

Camma, 
The wife of Sinnatus. 

Bo\. Going or gone to-day 

To hunt with .'^innatus. 

Synorix. That matters not. 

Take thou this cup and leave it at her 
doors. 
\Gives the cup and scroll to the Boy. 
Boy. I will, my lord, 

[ Takes his basket of grapes and exit. 



Enter ANTON lus. 
Antonius {meeting the Boy as he goes 
out). Why, whither runs the 
boy? 
Is that the cop you rescued from the 

Synorix. I send it to the wife of 



One half besotted m religious rites 
You come here with your soldiers 

enforce 
The long-withholden tril uf" : you s 

•% patr 




This Sinnatus of 

ism. 
Which in your sense is tie: ?on. You 

have yet 
No proof against him : now this pious 

cup 
Is passport to their house, and open 

aims 
To him who gave it ; and once there 

I 
thro' all their windings. 
Antonius. If you prosper. 

Our Senate, wearied of their tetrarch- 




Their quarrels with themselves, their 

spites at Rome, 
Is like enough to cancel them, and 

throne 
One king above them all, who shall he 

To the Roman : and from what I 

heard in Rome, 
This tributary crown may fall to yon. 
Synorix. The king, the crown ! 
their talk in Rome ? is it so ? 

[Antonius nods. 
Well — I shall serve Galatia taking it. 
And save her from herself, and be to 

Rome 
More faithful than a Roman. 

\Turns and.u-es Camma comini;. 
Stand aside. 
Stand aside ; here she comes ! 

\Watcliing Camma as .<he enters 
with her Maid. 
Camma (to .Maid). Wlieie is he, 

girl.' 
Maid. Yon know il.e walcrfall 

That in the summer keeps tlie moun- 
tain side. 
But after rain o'erleaps a jutting rock 
And shoots three hundred feet. 

Camma. The stag is there? 

Maid. Seen in the thicket at the 
bottom there 
Kut yester-even. 

Camma. Good then, we will climb 
The mountain opposite and watch the 
chase. 
[ They descend the rocksandexetint. 
Synorix {watching her). {Aside.) 
The bust of Juno and the brows 
and eyes 
Of Venus; face and form unmaich- 
able! 
Antonius. Why do you look at her 

so lingeringly ? 
Svnorix. To see if vears have 

changed her. 
Antonius {sarca-Uically). Love her. 

do you ? 
Synorix. I envied Sinnatus when 

he married her. 
Antonius. She knows it? lla! 
Synorix. She — no, 

face. 
Antonius. Nor Sinnatus either? 





The Cup. 



No, nor Sinnatus. 
Hot-blooded ! I have 
heard them saj- in Roine, 
1 liat your own people cast you from 

their bounds, 
For some unprincely violence to a 

As Rome did Tarquin. 

Synorix. Well, if this were so 

1 here return like Tarquin — for a 



And may be foil'd like 

Tarquin, if you follow 
Not the dry light of Rome's straight- 

gomg policy, 
But the fool-fire of love or lust, which 

well 
May make you lose yourself, may 

even drown you 
In the good regard of Rome. 

Hyiiorix. Tut— fear me not ; 

I ever had my victories among wo- 

I am most true to Rome. 

Antoniiis {asitit;). I hate tiie man ! 
What filthy tools our Senate works 

with I Still 

I must obey them. f^Atoiui.) Fare 

you well. \Going. 

Synorix. Farewell! 

Antonius (stopping.') .\ moment! 

If you track this Sinnatus 

In any treason, I give you here an 

order \Produces a paper. 

To seiie upon him. Let me sign it. 

(Signs it). There 
■ Antonius leader of the Roman 
Legion.' 
\HanJs llu paper to Synorix. 
Goes up pnt/i-otiy and exit. 
Synorix. Woman again ! — but I 
am wiser now. 
No rushing on the game — the net, — 
the net. 

[SAauts o/ ' Sinmtas'. Sinnatus !' 
TAen Aorn. 
Looking off stage.] He comes, a 
rough, bluff, simple-looking 
fellow, 
we may judge the kernel by the 
husk, 
'It one to keep a woman's fealty 





Assailed by Craft and Lovi 

with him : 
I may reap something from him — 

come upon //<■;• 
Again, perhaps, to-dav— //.'■. Who 

are with him .= 
I see no face that knows me. Shall I 

risk it? 
I am a Roman now, they dare not 

touch me. 
I will. 

Enter Sinnatus, Huntsmen ami 
Aounds. 

Fair Sir, a happy day to 

you ! 

You reck but little of the Roman here. 

While you can take your pastime in 

the woods. 

Sinn<7liis. Ay, ay, why not .' wRat 

would you with me, man ? 
Synorix. I am a life-long lover of 
the chase. 
And thro" a stranger fain would be 

allow'd 
To join the hunt. 

Sinnatus. Your name .' 

Synorix. Strato, my name. 

Sinnatus. No Roman name .' 
Synorix. A (Ireek, my lord ; yon 
know 
That we Oalatians are both Greek 
and Gaul. 

{S/iouts ani/Aorns in the liistante. 
Sinnatus. Hillo, the stag! (To 
Synorix.) What, you are all 
unfurnish'd ? 
Give him a bow and arrows — follow 
— follow. 

\Exit,follo7ved by Huntsmen. 
Svuorix. Slowly but surely— till I 
see my way. 
It is the one step in the dark beyond 
Our expectation, that amazes us. 

[Distant sAotits anj horns. 
Hillo! Hillo! 

[i'jr// Synorix. Shouts anel ho 



'rescoed figures on the walls. Even- 
ing. Moonlight outside. A eoneli 





The Cup. 



with cushiom on it. A small taliU 
with a flagon of wine, cups, plate of 
grapes, etc., also the cup of Scene I. 
A chair with drapery on il. 



Canima. No Sinnatus yet — and 
there the rising moon. 
\^Takes up ii cithern and sits on 
couch. Plays and sings. 
Moon on the field and the foam, 

Moon on the waste and the wold, 
Moon bring him home, bring him home 

Safe from the dark and the cold. 

Home, sweet moon, bring him home. 

Home with the flock to the fold — 

Safe from the wolf 

[Listening.) Is he coming? I 
thought 1 heard 
A footstep. No not yet. They say 

that Rome 
Sprang from a wolf. I fear my dear 

lord mixt 
With some conspiracy against the 

wolf. 
This mountain shepherd never 

dream'd of Rome. 
(Sings.) Safe from the wolf to the 

fold 

And that great break of precipice that 



Th 






vhere 



wenty 

years ago 
Huntsman, and hound, and deer were 

all neck-broken ! 
Nay, here he comes. 

Enter '^^lUtiArvs followed by SvNORIX. 
itatus [an^ 
good felli 
My arrow struck the stag. 

Synorix. But was it so ? 

Nay, you were further off: besides the 

wind 
Went with my arrow. 

I am sure /struck him. 
Synorix. And I am just as sure, 
my lord, /struck him. 
(Aside.) And I may strike your game 
when you are gone. 




Camma. Come, come, we 

quarrel about the slag, 

I have had a weary day in 



vengeance ( 




the 



■ eaten- 



Sinnatus. No, no — we ha\ 
we are heated. Wine ! 
Camma. Who is our guest ? 
Sinnatus. Strato he calls himself. 
I Camma offers -.nine to Synorix, 
while Sinnatus helps himself. 
Sinnatus. I pledge you, Strato. 

[Drinks. 

Synorix. And I you, my lord. 

[Drinks. 

Sinnatus (seeing the cup sent to 

Camma). What's here .' 
Camma. A strange gift sent to me 
to-day. 
A sacred cup saved from a blazing 

shrine 
Of our great Goddess, in some city 

where 
Antonius past. I had believed that 

Rome 
Made war upon the peoples not the 
Gods. 
Synorix. Most like the city rose 
against Antonius, 
Whereon he fired it, and the sacred 

shrine 
Hy chance was burnt along with it. 

Sinnatus. Had you then 

No message with the cup.' 

Camma. Why, yes, see here. 

[C/7VJ- him the scroll. 
Sinnatus (reads). ' To the admired 
Camma, — beheld you afar off — loved 
you — sends you this cup — the cup we 
use in our marriages — cannot at pres 
ent write himself other than 

'A GaI.ATIAN SERVING BY FORCt 

IN THK Roman I.ecion.' 

Serving by force ! Were there no 

boughs to hang on. 
Rivers to drown in i Serve by force .' 

No force 
Could make me serve by force. 

Synorix. How then, my lord.' 





The Roman is encampt without your 



The force of Rome a thousandfold 

our own. 

Must all Galatia hang or drown her- 
self ? 
And you a Prince and Tetrarch in this 
province — 
Sinimtus. Province ! 
Synorix. Well, well, they 

call it so in Rome. 
Sinnatus (af/^^i/y). Province! 
Synorix. A noble anger ! but An- 

To-morrow will demand your tribute 
— you, 

Can you make war? Have you al- 
liances ? 

Bithvnia, Pontus, Paphlagonia ? 

We have had our leagues of old with 
Eastern kings. 

There is my hand — if such a league 
there'be. 

What will you do ? 
Sinnatus. Not set myself abroach 

And run my mind out to a random 

You saw 
and we have two- 
smell a true occa- 



Cup. 

Will crush you if you wrestle with 

her ; then 
Save for some slight report in her own 

Senate 

Scarce know what she has done. 
{Asid,:) Would I could i 



Ami... 6 us who can sm< 

sion, 
And when to bark and how. 

Synorix, .My good Lord Sinnatus, 
1 once was at the hunting of a 

lion. 
Roused by the clamor of the chase he 

woke, 
Came to the front of the wood — his 

monarch mane 



Kristled abo 


t his qu 


irk 


ears— he 




stood t 


lere 






Stari 


ig upon 
dogs 
•d at hi 


the hunte 




A score of 


Gna« 


s ankles: 


nt 


he last he 




felt 








The 


rouble c 
paw. 


f his feet. 


put 


forth one 


Slew 


four, and knew 


t r 


ot, and so 




remam 


d 






Staring upon 


the hun 


ter 


and this 




Provoke him ; 



(Aloud.) The 



Lady Camma, 
Wise I am sure as she is beautiful, 
Will close with me that to submit at 

Is better than a whoUv-hopeless war. 
Our gallant citizens murder'd all in 

vain. 
Son, husband, brother gash'd to death 

in vain, 
And the small state more cruelly 

trampled on 
Than had she never moved. 

Camma. Sir, I had once 

A boy who died a babe ; hut were he 



And ! 



to man and Sinnatus will'd 
him in the front rank of 
) Sir, if 



Would set hi 
the fight 

With scarce a pang. (Jfi 
a state submit 

At once, she may be blotted out at 
once 

And swallow'd in tlie conqueror's 
chronicle. 

Whereas in wars of freedom and de- 
fence 

The glory and grief of battle won or 

Solders a race together — yea — tho' 

they fail, 
The names of those who fought and 

fell are like 
A bank'dup fire that flashes out again 
From century to century, and at last 
May lead them on to victory — 1 hope 

Like phantoms of the Gods. 

Sinnatus. Well spoken, wife. 

Synorix \bowinff). Madam, so well 

I yield. 
Sinnatus. I should not wonder 

If Synorix, who has dwelt three years 

in Rome 
And wrought his worst against his 
native land. 




3^t-^ 



d- 




HER SPI.ENDO0R.''— /b^^ /6S. 




Returns with this Antonius. 
Syrionx. What is Synorix ? 

Galatian, and not know ? 
This Synorix 
Was Tetrarch here, and tyrant also — 

did 
Dishonor to our wives. 
Synorix. Perhaps j-ou judge 
him 
With feeble charity: being as you tell 

Tetrarch, there might be willing wives 

enough 
To feel dishonot. honor. 

Canima. Do not sav so. 

I know of no such wives in' all 

Galatia 
There may be 

know 
Whose life is one dishonor. 



for aught I 



er .Atte.ndant. 
{(isi<h-). My lord, the 






Our 



-Roman 



Attfiidniit (aside). Ay, my lord 

Synorix (overhearing). (Asidi 

have enough — their 

Roman faction. 
Siiiiiatiis (aloud). .Some frienc 

mine would speak to me with- 

You, Strato, make good cheer ti 

return. \Exit. 

Synorix. I have much to say, no 



First, lady, kn 



nyself : 



that Gala- 



Who sent the cup. 

Camnia. I thank you from mv 

heart. 
Synorix. 'I'hen that I serve with 
Rome to serve Galatia. 
That is mv secret : keep it, or vou 
sell me 
torment and to death. [Coming 
iloser. For your ear only — 

ife you — for your love to the great 
Goddess. 

The Romans sent me here a spy 
upon you. 




Cup. 

To draw you and your husband to 
your doom. 

I'd sooner die than do it. 

[Taies out pafer given him by Anto- 
nius. This paper sign'd 

Antonius — will you take it, read it ? 
there ! 
Camma. (Reads.) 'You are to 

seize on .Sinnatus, — if ' 

Synorix. (Snatches paper.) No 

What follows is for no wife's eyes. 

O Camma, 
Rome has a glimpse of this con- 
spiracy ; 
Rome never yet hath spar'd con- 
spirator. 
Horrible! fiaying, scourging, crucify- 
ing 

Canniia. I am tender enough. 

Why do you practise on me .' 
Synorix. Why should I practise 
on you ? How you wrong me ! 
I am sure of being every way ma- 

lign'd. 
And if you should betray nie to your 

husband 

Camma. Will you betray him by 

this order .> 

Synorix. See, 

I tear it all to pieces, never dream'd 

Of acting on it. [ Tears the paper. 

Camma. I owe you thanks for 

ever. 
Synorix. Hath Sinnatus never told 

vou of this plot .' 
Canima. What plot .' 
Synorix. \ child's sand- 

castle on the beach 
For the next wave — all seen, — all cal- 
culated. 
All known by Rome. No chance for 
Sinnatus. 
Camma. Why said you not as 

much to my brave Sinnatus ? 
Synorix. Brave — ay— too brave, 
too over-confident. 
Too like to ruin himself, and you, 

and me ! 
Who else, with this black thunderbolt 

of Rome 
Above him, would have chased the 
stag to-day 





The Cup. 



In the full face of all the Roman 
camp ? 

A miracle that they let him home 
again, 

Not caught, niaim'd, blinded him. 

(Camma shiiJJers. 
[Asid^.) I have made her tremble. 

(Alffud.) I know they mean to tor- 
ture him to death. 

t dare not tell him how I came to 
know it ; 

I durst not trust him with — my serv- 
ing Rome 

To serve Galatia : you heard him on 
the letter. 

Not say as much ? I all but said as 




uch. 



that 



plo 



I am sure I told hi 

was folly. 
I say it to you — you are wiser — Rome 

knows all, 
But you know not the savagery of 
Rome. 
Ctiiiimn. O — have you power with 

Rome ? use it for him ! 
Synorix. Alas ! I have no such 
power with Rome. All that 
Lies with Antonius. 

\As if struck by a sudden thought. 
Comes oz'er to her. 

He will pass to-morrow 
In the gray dawn before the Temple 

You have beauty, — O great beauty, — 

and Antonius, 
So gracious toward women, never 

yet 
Flung hack a woman's prayer. Plead 

I am sure vou will prevail. 

Camma.' StUI— I should telJ 

^fv husband. 
Synorix. Will he let you plead for 
him 
To a Roman .' 

C.imm,i. I fear not. 
Synorix. Then do not tell him. 

Or tell him, if you will, when you re- 
turn, 
When you have charm'd our general 

into mercy, 
.\nd all is safe again. O dearest 
ladv. 



[Afnrmurs o/' Synorix ! Synorix ! 
heard outside. 
Think, — torture, — death, — and 

Camma. I will, I wi 

And I will not betray you. 
Synorix (aside). (As Sinnati 
enters.) Stand ajLir 



enter SiNNATUS and ATTENDANt. 
Sinnatus. Thou art that Synorix ! 
One whom thou hast wrong'd 
Without there, knew thee with Anto- 
nius. 
They howl for thee, to rend thee 
head from limb. 
Synorix. I am much malignM. I 

thought to serve Galatia. 
Sinnatus. Serve thyself first, vil- 
lain ! They shall not harm 
My guest within my house. There ! 
(points to door) there ! this door 
Opens upon the forest I Out, begone ! 
Henceforth I am thy mortal enemy. 
Synorix. However I thank thee 
(draws his sword) ; thou hast 
saved my life. [Exit. 

Sinnatus. (To Attendant.) Return 
and tell them Synorix is not 
j here. [Exit Attendant. 

What did that villain Synorix say to 
I you ? 

I Camma. Is he — that — Synorix .> 
I Sinnatus. Wherefore should y.ui 
doubt it ? 
One of the men there knew him. 
j Camma. Only one, 

1 And he perhaps mistaken in the 
face. 
Sinnatui. Come, come, could he 

deny it .> What did he say ? 
Camma. What should he say? 
Sinnatus. What should he say, my 
wife ! 
He should say this, that being 

Tetrarch once 
His own true people cast him frun! 

their doors 
Like a base coin. 

Camma. Not kindly to them .' 
.Sinnatns. Kindlv .^ 

O the most kindly Prince in all the 
world ! 





The Cup. 



Would clap his honest citizens on the 
back, 
andv their own rude jests \vith them, 
' be curious 
About the welfare of their babes, 

their wives, 
() ay — their wives — their wives. 

' What should he say .' 
He should say nothing to my wife if 

Were by to throttle him ! He steep'd 

himself 
In all the lust of Rome. How should 

you guess 
What manner of beast il is? 

Oimnia. Vet he seem'd kindly, 

.\nd said he loathed the cruelties 

that Rome 
Wrought on her vassals. 
Siniialiis. Did he, honest man ? 

Ciinima. .'Xnd you. that seldom 
brook the stranger here. 
Have let him hunt the stag with you 
to-day. 
Sinnattis. I warrant you now, he 

said he struck the 'stag. 
Comma. Why no, he never touch'd 

upon the stag. 
Sinnatus. Why so I said, my ar- 
row. Well, to sleep. . 

[Goes to close door. 
Camntn. Nay, close not yet the 
door upon a night 
That looks half day. 

Sinnaliis. True ; and my friends 
may spy him 
And slay him as he runs. 

Oimtiia. He is gone already. 

Oh look, — yon grove upon the moun- 
tain,— white 
In ihe sweet moon as with a lovelier 

Kut what a blotch of blacknes-s under- 
neath ! 
■Sinnatus, you remember — yea, you 

That there three years ago — the vast 

vine-bowers 
Kan to the summit of the trees, and 

dropt 
Their streamers earthward, which a 

breeze of May 
Took ever and anon, and iipeu'd out 





! The purple zone of hill and heaven : 
' there 

You told your love ; and like the 

swaying vines — 
Yea, — with our eyes. — our hearts, our 

prophet hopes 
Let in the happy distance, and that 

all 
But cloudless heaven which we have 

found together 
In our three married years! Ynu 

kiss'd me there 
For the first time. Sinnatus, kiss me 
now. 
Sinnatus. First kiss. (A'isses her.) 
There then. You talk almost 
as if it 
Might be the last. 

Comma. Will you not eat a little ? 
Sinnatus. No, no, we found a goat- 
herd's hut and shared 
His fruits and milk. Liar ! You will 

believe 
Now that he never struck the stag — a 

brave one 
Which you shall see to-morrow. 

Comma. I rise to-morrow 

In the gray dawn, and take this holy 

cup 
To lodge it in the shrine of Artemis. 
Sinnatus. Good ! 
Camma. If I be not back m 

half an hour. 
Come after me. 

Sinnatus. What ! is there danger .' 

None that I know : 'tis but a step 

from here 
To the Temple. 

Sinnatus. All my brain is full of 

sleep. 
Wake me before you go, I'll after 

.After me now ! [Closes door and exit. 
Camma (drawing curtains). Your 

shadow. Synorix — 
His face was not malignant, and he 

said 
That men nialign'd him. Shall I go ? 

Shall I go ? 
Death, torture— 
' He never yet flung back a woman"< 

prayer ' — 





Music and Singing in the Temple. 



Synorix. Publius ! 
Publius. Here I 

Synorix. Do you re- 

member what I told vou ? 

PiMiiis. When you cry ■ Rome, 
Rome," to seize 
On whomsoever may be talking with 

you, 
Or man, or woman, as traitors unto 
Rome. 
Synonx. Right. Back again. 

How many of you are there .' 
Piibliiu. Some half a score. 

\Exeunt Soldiers and Publius. 
Synorix. I have my guard 

about me. 
I need not fear the crowd that hunted 

me 
Across the woods, last night. I hardly 

gain'd 
The camp at midnight. Will she come 

to me 
Now that she knows me Synorix ? 

Not if Sinnatus 
Has told her all the truth about me. 

Well, 
I cannot help the mould that I was 

I tiing ail that upon my fate, my star. 
I know that I am genial, I would be 
U-ippy, and make all others happy so 
They did not thwart me. Nay, she 

will not come. 
Yet it she be a true and loving wife 
She may, perchance, to save this hus- 
band. .\y ! 
See, see, my white bird stepping 

toward the snare. 
Why now I count it all but miracle, 
this brave heart of mine should 
sli.ike me so, 




As helplessly as 

boy's 

When first he meet: 

bower. 

[Enter Camma (with ciif). 
The lark first takes the sunlight on his 

wing. 
But you, twin sister of the morning 

star, 
Forelead the sun. 

Camma. Where is Antonius ? 

Synorix. Not here as yet. You 
are too early for him. 

\Slie crosses towards Temple. 
Synorix. Nay, whither go you 

now ? 
Camma. To lodge this cup 

Within the holy shrine of Artemis, 
And so return. 

Synorix. To find .\ntonius here. 
[She goes into the Temple, he looks 
after her. 
The nveliest life that ever drew the 
iight 
I From heaven to brood upon her, and 
enrich 
Earth with her shadow ! I trust she 
will return. 
I These Romans dare not violate the 
' Temple. 
No, I must lure my game into the 
camp. 
I A woman I could live and die for. 
\ What ! 

I Die for a woman, what new faith is 
I this? 

1 I am not mad, not sick, not old 
' enough 

To doat on one alone. Yes, mad for 
her, 
I C.imma the stately, Camma the great- 
! hearted, 

] So mad, 1 fear some strange and evil 

chance 
I Coming upon me, for by the Gods I 
I seem 

i Strange to myself. 

j Re-enter Cmaiak. 

1 Camma. Where is Antonius .' 

I Synorix. Where .' As I said be- 
i fore, you are still too early. 





The Cup. 



Camma. Too earlv to be here alone 
with thee ; 
For whether men malign thj- name, or 

It bears an evil savor among women. 
Where is Antonius ? (Lorn/.) 

Syiwrix. Madam, as you know 

The camp is half a league without the 

city; 
It you will walk with me we needs 

Antonius coming, or at least shall find 

him 
There in the camp. 

Camma. No, not one step with 
thee. 
Where is Antonius ? (Louder.) 

Synorix {advancing Imi'ards her). 
Then for your own sake, 
Lady, I say it with all gentleness. 
And for the sake of Sinnatus your 

husband, 
I must compel you. 

Camma (drawing her dagger). 

Stay ! — loo near is death. 

Synorix (disarming her). Is it not 

easy to disarm a woman ? 

Enter Sinnatus (seizes him from 
behind by the throat). 



Synorix (throttled and sea 
ble). Rome I Rome ! 
Sinnatus. Adulterous dog ! 

Synorix (stabbing him with Cam- 
ma's dagger). What ! will you have 
it ? [Camma utters a ery and 
runs to Sinnatus. 
Sinnatus (falls baekzoard). I have 
it in my heart — to the Temple 
-fiy- 
For my sake — or they seize on thee. 

Remember I 
Away — farewell! [Dies. 

Camma (runs up the steps into the 
Temple, looking back). Fare- 
well ! 
Synorix (seeing her escape). The 
women of the Temple drag her 
in. 
Publius! Publius! No, 
Antonius would not suffer me to 
break 



audi- 





Inlo the sanctuary. She hath 

caped. 

[Looking derwn at Sin 
' Adulterous dog ! ' that red-faced 

rage at me ! 
Then with one quick short stab — 

eternal peace. 
So end all passions. Then what use 

in passions ? 
To warm the cold bounds of our dy- 
ing life 
And, lest we freeze in mortal apathy. 
Employ us, heat us, quicken us, help 

us, keep us 
From seeing all too near that urn, 

those ashes 
Which all must be. Well used, they 

serve us well. 
I heard a saying in Egypt, that ambi- 

bition 
Is like the sea wave, which the more 

you drink, 
The more you thirst — yea — drink too 

much, as men 
Have done on rafts of wreck — it 

drives you mad. 
I will be no such wreck, am no such 

gamester 
As, having won the stake, would dare 

the chance 
Of double, or losing all. The Roman 

Senate, 
For I have always play'd into their 

hands. 
Means me the crown. And Camma 

for my bride — 
The people love her — if I win her 

love. 
They too will cleave to me, as one 

with her. 
There then I rest, Rome's tributary 

king. 

[Looking down on Sinnatus. 
Why did I strike him.' — having proof 

enough 
Against the man, I surely should have 

left 
That stroke to Rome. He saved my 

life too. Did he? 
It seem'd so. I have play'd the sud- 
den fool. 
And that sets her against me — for the 





The Cup. 



Camma — well, well, I never found the 
vheedle to my 
ist to wear my 



could not force o 

will. 
She will be glad at 

crown. 
And I will make Galatia prosperous 



too, 



And we will chirp among our vines, 

and smile j 

At bygone things till that (pointing to \ 

.Sinnatus) eternal peace. 
Rome ! Rome ! 

\Eiit,-r Publius and Soldiers. 
Twice I cried Home- Why came ye 
not before .' 
Publius. Why come we now? 
Whom shall we seize upon .' 

Synorix (pointing to the body of Sin- 
natus). The body of that dead traitor 



-3 



Singing in TcmpU. 



Small gold gates on platform in front 
of the veil before the colossal statue of 
the Goildess, and in the centre of the 
Temple a tripod altar, on which is a 
lighted lamp. Lamps [lighted) sus- 
pended between each pillar. Tripods, 
vases^ garlands of flowers, etc., 
about staxe. Altar at bach close to 
Goddess, ivilh two cups. Solemn 
niusii. Priestesses decorating the 
Temple. 



.Artemis, Artemis, hear us, O Mother, 
hear us, and bless us ! 

, thou that art life to the wind, 
to the wave, to the glebe, to 
the fire ! 

thy people who praise thee ! O 
hel]> us from all that oppress 



O yield them all their cfesire ! 
Priistess. Phoebe, that man from 
Synorix, who has been 
So oft to see the Priestess, waits once 

Before the Temple 
P/iabe. We will let her know. 

[Signs to one of the Priestesses, 
who goes out. 
Since Camma fled from Synorix to 

our Temple, 
And for her beauty, stateliness, and 

power. 
Was chosen Priestess here, have you 

not mark'd 
Her eyes were ever on the marble 

floor ? 
To-day they are fixt and bright — they 

look straight out. 
Hath she made up her mind to marry 
him ? 
Priestess. To marry him who 
stabb'd her Sinnatus. 
Vou will not easilv make me credit 
that. 
Pha-be. Ask her. 

Enter CaMMA as Priestess (in front 
of the curtains). 




Priestes: 
Camma 



M\ 



not marry Syn- 
I am the bride 




of Death, and only 

Marry the dead. 
Priestess. Not Synorix then } 

Camma. My girl. 

At times this oracle of great Artemis 

Has no more power than other oracles 

To speak directly. 

Phcelie. Will you speak to him. 

The messenger from Synorix who 

Before the Temple .' 

Camma. Why not? I-ct him 

\Contes forward on to step l>y trip 

Enter a Messenger. 



Messenger (kneels). Greeting : 
health from Synorix ! .M 
than once 





The Cup. 



have refused his hand. When 
last I s 
all but 



last answer. When 

k at Sinnatus — 

many a time declared 



He knew not at the moment who had 

fasten'd 
About his throat — he begs you to for- 
get it 
As scarce his act : — a random stroke : 

all else 
Was love for you : he prays you to 
believe him. 
Camma. I pray him to believe — 

that I believe him. 
Messenger. Why that is well. 

You mean to marry him ? 
Ciimma. I mean to marry him — if 

that be well. 

Messenger. This very day the 

Romans crown him king 

Kor all his faithful services to Rome. 

He wills you then this day to marry 

And so be throned together in the 

sight 
Of all the people, that the world mav 




iled. 



You twain are 

more feuds 
Disturb our peaceful vassalage to 

Cammii. To-day.' Too sudden. 1 
will brood upon it. 
When do they crown him } 
Messenger. Even now. 

Camma. .\nd where? 

.Messenger. Here by your temple. 
Camma. Come once more to me 
Kefore the crowning, — I will answer 
you. \^Exit Messenger. 

Phahe. Great Artemis ! O Cam- 
ma, can it be well. 
Or good, or wise, that you should 

clasp a hand 
Red mth the sacred blood of Sinna- 



Camma. Good ! mine own dagger 

driven by .Synorix found 

All good in the true heart of Sinnatus. 




Life yields to death and wisdom bows 

to Fate, 
Is wisest, doing so. Did not this 

.Speak well .' We cannot fight impe- 
rial Rome, 

Kut he and I are both Galalian- 
born, 

-And tributary sovereigns, he and 

Might teach this Rome — from knowl- 
1 edge of our people — 

I Where to lay on her tribute — heavily 
here 
And lightly there. Might I not live 
J for that, 

j And drown all poor self-passion in 
[ the sense 

[ Of public good .' 

Pheehe. I am sure you will not 

marry him. 
I Camma. Are you so sure ? I prar 
you wait and see. 

{Shouts (from the .iistunee I. 

' Synorix ! Synori.x ! " 

Camma. Synorix, Synorix ! So 

they cried Sinnatus 

Not so long since — thev sicken mc. 

The One 
Who shifts his policy suffers some- 
thing, must 
-Accuse himself, excuse himself ; the 

Many 
Will feel no shame to give themselves 
the lie. 
Phabe. Most like it was the Ro- 
man soldier shouted. 
Camma. Their shield-borne pa- 
triot of the morning star 
Hang'd at mid-day, their traitor of 

the dawn 
The clamor'd darling of their after- 
noon ! 
And that same head they would have 

play'd at ball with 
And kick'd it featureless — thev now 
would crown. 

[Flouris/i of trumpets. 

Enter a Galatian NoBLEM, 





The Cup. 



A'obU {tnef/s). Greeting and 

health from Synorix. He 

sends vou 
This diadem of the first Galatian 

Queen, 
That you may feed your fancy on the 

glory of it, 
And join your life this day with his, 

and wear it 
Beside him on his throne. He waits 

your answer. 
Citmma. Tell him there is one 

shadow among the shadows, 
One ghost of all the ghosts — as yet so 

So strange among them — such an 

alien there. 
So much of husband in it still — that 

if 
The shout of Synorix and Camma 

sitting 
Upon one throne, should reach it, it 

would rise 
//? .' . . . He, with that red star be- 
tween the ribs. 
And my knife there— and blast the 

king and me. 
And blanch the crowd with horror. I 

dare not, sir ! 
Throne him — and then the marriage 

—ay and tell him 

That I accept the diadem of Galatia— 

[Ail arc amazed. 

Vea, that ye saw me crown myself 

withal. \_Pttts on the ci-<nvu. 

I wait him his crown'd queen. 

Noble. So will I tell him. \E.vil. 
Music. Two Priestesses go up the 
steps before the shrine, draw the cur- 
tains on either side (discovering the 
Goddess), then open the gates and re- 
main on steps, one on either side, and 
kneel. A priestess goes off and re- 
turns with a veil of marriage, then 
assists Phabe to veil Camma. At 
the same lime Priestesses enter and 
stand on either siiie of the Temple. 
Camma and all the Priestesses kneel, 
raise their hands to the Goddess, and 
how down. 



\Shouts, ' Synorix ! Syr 




All 




Camma. Fling wide the doors and 

let the new-made children 

t)f our imperial mother see the show. 

[Sunlight pours through the doon. 

I have no heart to do it. ' ( To Phabe). 

Look for me ! 

1 Crouches. Phoebe looks out. 
Shouts, ' Synorix ! Synorix !' 
Pharbe. He climbs the throne. 
Hot blood, ambition, pride 
So bloat and redden his face — O 

would it were 
His third last apoplexy ! O bestial ! 
O how unlike our goodly Sinnatus. 
Camma {on the ground). You 
wrong him surely; far as the 
face goes 
A goodlier-looking man than Sinna- 
tus. 
Pha-be {aside). How dare she say 
it > I could hate her for it 
But that she is distracted. 

[A Nourish of trumpets. 
Camma. Is he crown'd ? 

Phabe. Ay, there they crowii him. 
[Crowd 7m'lhflut sliout, 'Synorix! 
Synorix ! ' 
[A Priestess brings a box of spices to 
Camma, 7vho thrmos them on the 
altar-flame. 
Camma. Rouse the dead altar- 
flame, fling in the spices, 
Nard, Cinnamon, amomum, benzoin. 
Let all the air reel into a mist of 

odor. 
As in the midmost heart of Paradise. 
Lay down the Lydian carpets for the 

king. 
The king should pace on purple to 

And music there to greet my lord the 

king. [Afnsii . 

{To Phabe). Dost thr>u remember 

when I wedded Sinnatus .' 
Ay, thou wast there — whether from 

maiden fears 
Or reverential love for him I loved. 
Or some strange second-sight, the 

marriage cup 
Wherefrom we make libation to the 

Goddess 
.So shook within mv hand, that the 

red wine 





The Cup. 



Ran down the marble and lookt like 
biood, like blood. 
Phalif. I do remember your first- 
marriage fears. 
Camma. 1 have no fears at this 
my second marriage. 
See here — I stretch my hand out — 

hold it there. 
Ho«- steady it is ! 
Pliabe. Steady enough to stab him ! 
Camma. O hush ! O peace! This 
violence ill becomes 
The silence of our Tem])le. Gentle- 

Low words best chime with this so- 
lemnity. 

Eiitir a procession of Priestesses and 
Children bearing garlands and 
golden goblets, and strewing flow- 

Enter SvNORIX (as King, with gold 
lanrel-aorcath crown and purfle 
robes), /ollo7ved by AwTONllts, 
PUBLIUS, Noblemen, Guards, and 
the Populace. 

Camma. Hail, King I 
Synorix. Hail, Queen ! 

The wheel of fate has roU'd me to 



the I 



I would that happiness were gold, 

that I 
Might cast my largess of it to the 

I would that every man made feast 

to-day 
Beneath the shadow of our pines and 

planes ! 
For all my truer life begins to-day. 
The past is like a travell'd land now 

sunk 
Below the horizon — like a barren 

shore 
That grew salt weeds, but now all 

drown'd in love 
And glittering at full tide— the boun- 
teous bays 
And havens filling with a blissful sea. 
Nor speak I now too mightily, being 

King 
And happy I happiest, Lady, in mv 

power 




To make you happy. 

Camma. Yes, sir. 

Synorix. Our Aiu.Mii 

Our faithful friend of Rome, t 

Rome may set 
A free foot where she will, yet of 




Entreats he may be present at our 
marriage. 
Camma. Let him come — a legion 
with him, if he will. 

(To Antonius.) Welcome, my lord 
Antonius, to our Temple. 

( To Synorix.) You on this side the 
altar. ( 7'6> Antonius.) You on 
that. 

Call first upon the Goddess, Synorix. 
[All face the Goddess. Priestesses, 
Children, Populace, and Guards 
kneel — the others remain stand- 
ing. 
Synorix. O Thou, that dost inspire 
the germ with life. 

The child, a thread within the house 
of birth. 

And give him limbs, then air, and 
send him forth 

The glory of his father — Thou whose 
breath 

Is balmy wind to robe our hills with 
grass, 

And kindle all our vales with myrtle- 
blossom. 

And roll the golden oceans of our 
grain. 

And sway the long grape-bunches of 
our vines. 

And fill all hearts with fatness and 
the lust 

Of plenty — make me happy in my 
marriage ! 
Chorus (chanting). Artemis, Arte- 
mis, hear him, Ionian Artemis! 
Camma. O Thou that slayest the 
babe within the womb 

Or in the being born, or after slayest 
him 

As boy or man, great Goddess, whose 
i-oice 

Unsockets the strong oak, and rears 





The Clip. 



, and 



over all the fleeted wealth of 

kings 
Aiul peoples, hear. 
Whose arrow is the plague — whose 

cjuick flash splits 
The mid-sea mast, and rifts the tower 

to the rock, 
And hurls the victor's column down 

with bim 
That crowns it, hear. 
Who causest the safe earth to shud- 
der and gape, 
.\nd gulf and flatten in her closing 

chasm 
Domed cities, hear. 
Whose lava-torrents blast and blacken 

a province 
To a cinder, hear. 
Whose winter-cataracts find a 

and leave it 
.\ waste of rock and ruin, hear. 

thee 
To make my marriage i)rosper 

wish ! 
Chorum-. Artemis, Artemis 

her, Ephesian Artemis ! 
Camma. Artemis, Artemis, hear 

nie, Galatian Artemis! 
I call (m our own Goddess in our own 

Temple. 
Chorus, .\rtemis, Artemis, hear 

her, Galatian Artemis ! 

I Thiindey. All nsi. 
Syiiorix (aside). Thunder ! Ay, 

ay, the storm was drawing 

hither 
.\cross the hills when I was being 



realm 
1 call 



hear 



if I 



pale 



marrying ? 
Syiwn.\ . .Surely— yet 

These arc strange words to speak to 

Cumina. Words arc not always 

what they seem, my King. 

I will be faithful to thee till thou die. 

SviioriA. I thank thee. Camma, — I 

thank thee. 





Much graced are we that our Queen 
Rome in you 

Deigns to look in upon our barba- 
risms. 

[Tunis, goes up steps to altar be- 
fore the Goddess. Takes a cup 
from off the aJtar. Holds if 
towards Antonius. .Xntoniu.s 
f^oes up to the foot of the steps 
opposite to Synorix. 

You see this cup, my lord. 

[Gii'es it to him. 
Antonius. Most curious ! 

The many-breasted mother Arte- 
mis 

Emboss'd upon it. 

Camma. It is old, I know not 

How many hundred years. (Jive it 
me again. 

It is the cup belonging our own Tem- 
ple. 
\Futs It baek on altar and lakes up 
the eup of Act J. Shoving it 
to Antonius. 

Here is another sacred to the God- 
dess, 

The gift of Synorix ; and the (Jod- 
dess, being 

For this most grateful, wills, thro' me 
her Priestess, 

In honor of his gift and of our mar- 
riage, 

That .Synorix should drink from his 
own cup. 
Synorix. I thank thee, Camma,— 1 

thank thee. 
Comma. For— my lord- 

It is our ancient custom in Galatia 

That ere two souls be knit for life and 
death, 

They two should drink together from 

In .symbol of their married unity. 
Making libation to the Goddess. 

Hring me 
The costly wines we use in marriages. 
[ They bring in a large jar of wine. 
Camma pours wine into eup. 
( To Synorix.) See here, I fill it. ( To 
Antonius.) Will von drink, mv 
lord? 
Antonius. I ? Why should I ? I 
am noi to be married. 





The Cup. 



una. Hut that might bring a 
Roman blessing on us. 
Aiilonius {refusing cup). Thy par- 
don, Priestess ! 
Camma. Thou art in the right. 

This blessing is for Synorix and for 

.See first I make libation to the God- 
dess, [Makes libation. 
And now I drinl<. 

[Drinks and fills the cup again. 

Thy turn, Galatian King. 

Drink and drink deep — our marriage 

will be fruitful. 
Drink and drink deep, and ihou wilt 
make me happy. 
[Synorix goes up to her. She 
hands him the cup. He drinks. 
Synorix. There, Camma ! I have 
almost drain'd the cup — 
A few drops left. 

Camma. Libation to the Goddess. 
[ffe thrtnvs the remaining drops 
on the altar and gives Camma 
the cup. 
Camma (placing the cup on the 
altar). Why then the Goddess 
hears. 
[Comes down and forward to 
tripod. Antonius folloivs. 

Antonius, 
Where wast thou on that morning 

when I came 
To plead to thee for Sinnatus's life, 
Beside this temple half a year 
ago? 
Antonius. I never heard of this 

request of thine. 
Synorix (corning forward hastily to 
foot of tripod steps). I sought 
him and I could not find him. 
Pray you. 
Go on with the marriage lites. 

Camma. Antonius 

' Camma ! ' who spake } 
Antonius. Not I. 

rhabe. Nor any here. 

Camma. I am all but sure that 
some one spake. Antonius, 
If you had found him plotting against 

Rome, 
Would vou have tortured Sinnatus to 




Antonius. No thought was mine of 

torture or of death. 
But had I found him plotting, I had 

counseird him 
To rest from vain resistance. Rome 

is fated 
To rule the world. Then, if he had 

not listen'd, 
I might have sent him prisoner to 

Rome. 
Synorix. Why do you palter with 

the ceremony .' 
Go on with the marriage rites. 

Camma. They are finish'd. 

Synorix. How ! 

Camma. Thou hast drunk deep 

enough to make me happy. 
Dost thou not feel the love I bear to 

thee 
Glow thro' thy veins ? 

Synorix. The love I bear to thee 
Glows thro' my veins since first I 

look'd on thee. 
But wherefore slur the perfect cere- 
mony .•• 
The sovereign of Galatia weds his 

Queen. 
Let all be done to the fullest in the 

sight 
Of all the Gods. 

Nav, rather than so clip 
The flowerv robe of Hvmcp, we would 

add' 
.Some golden fringe of goigeousness 

beyond 
Old use, to make the day memorial, 

when 
.Synorix, first King, Camma, first 

Queen o' the Realm, 
Drew here the richest lot from Kate, 

to live 
.-\nd die together. 

This pain — what is it .■* — again .' 
I had a touch of this last year— In — 

Rome. 
Yes, yes. ( T;; Antonius.) Your arm 

— a moment — It will pa.ss. 
I reel beneath the weight of utter 

joy— 
This all too happy day, crown — queen 

at once. \Staggers. 

O all ye Gods — Jupiter! — Jupiter! 

[Falls backuHird. 





The Cup. 



Camma. Post thou cry out upon 
the Gods of Rome ? 
Thou art Galatian-born. Our Artemis 
Has vanquish'd their Diana. 
Synanx [on the g-round). 1 am 
poison'd. 
She — close the Temple door. Let 
her not fly.. 
Ciimma (leaning on tripod). Have 
I not drunk of the same cup 
with thee ? 
Synorix. Ay, by the Gods of Rome 
and all the world, 
She too — she too — the liride ! the 

Queen! and I — 
Monstrous ! I that loved her. 

Camma. I loved liim. 

Synorix. O murderous mad-woman ! 
I pray you lift me 
.•\nd make nie walk awhile. I have 

heard these poisons 
May be walk'd down. 

[Antonius ,»/,/Pul)lius raise liim up. 

My feet are tons of lead. 

They will break in the earth — I am 

•sinking— hold me— 
Let me alone. 

I They leave him ; he sii/is •Imuii on 

Too late — thought myself 



Antonius, tell the 
true to Rome— 



.\ woman s aupe. 

.Senate 
1 have been mo 

would have been true 

To /;<v — if — i f [ Falls as if dead. 

Camilla [eomiiig and leaning in'er 

him). So falls the throne of 



Not guilty of ourselves — thy doom 
and mine — 

Thou — coming my way too— Camma 
— good-night. [Dies. 

Camma (upheld hy weeping Priest- 
esses). Thy way .' poor woiiii. 
crawl down thine own black hole 





Antonius. is he 
d — better 



To the lowest Hell. 

there .> 
I meant thee to have fol 

thus. 
Nay, if my people must be thralls of 

Rome, 
lie is gentle, tho' a Roman. 
[Sinks haek into the arms of the Priest- 



Thou art one 
.ind though a 



call'd. 



Antonius. 
With thine own people 

Roman I 
Forgive thee, Camma. 
Camma ( raising herself). 
— why there again 
I am most sure that som< 

women, 
Ye will have Roman 

glad 
1 shall not see it. Did not some old 

Greek 
Say death was the chief good .' He 

had my fate for it, 
Poison'd. (Sinks haek again.) Have 

1 the crown on ? I will go 

To meet him, crown'd ! crown'd victor 

of my will — 
On mv last voyage — but the wind has 

• fail'd- 
Grovving dark too — but liyht enough 

Row to the blessed Isles ! the blessed 



Isle 



It i 



Why comes he not to meet 
the crown 

Offends him — and my hands are too 
sleepy 

To lift it off. [Phcebe takes the ermon 
off. 
Who touch'd me then.' I thank 
vou. 

[Rises, with out.rpread arms. 

There— league on league of ever-shin- 
ing shore 

Heneath an ever-rising sun — 1 see 



nma, Camma ! 



Sinnat 





THE FALCON, 



The Coi'NT Federigo uecli A 
FlLlppo, CoHttfs /osteT'brother, 




SCENE.— An Italian CoriAut. 
Castle and Mountains seen 
THROUGH Window. 

Elisabeita discinjered seated on stool 
in window darning. The Count 
ivit/i Falcon on Ms hand conies down 
through the door at bach. A with- 
ered ivreath on the wall. 

Elisabetta. So, my lord, the Lady 
Giovanna, who hath been away so long, 
came back last night with her son to 
the castle. 

Count. Hear that, my bird ! Art 
thou not jealous of her ? 
My princess of the cloud, my plumed 



inds- 
, and 



thou 



Mv far-eved queen of the 

that canst soar 
Beyond the morning la 

soe'er 
Thy quarry wind and wheel, swoup 

down upon him 
Eagle-like, lightning-like— strike, make 

his feathers 
t;iance in mid heaven. 

( Crosses to chair. 

I would thou hadst a mate ! 

Thy breed will die with thee, and 

mine with me : 
1 am as lone and loveless as thyself. 

\Sits in chair. 
Giovanna here! Ay, ruffle thyself— 

/>e jealous ! 
Thou should'st be jealous of her. 

Tho' I bred thee 
The full-train'd marvel of all falconry, 
\nd love thee and thou me. vet if 

Gi 
Be here again— No, no! Buss me, 

my bird ! 
The stately widow has no heart for 



Thou art the last friend left me upon 

earth- 
No, no again to that. 

{/ii.w and turns. 

My good old nurse, 

I had forgotten thou wast sitting 

there. 

Elisabetta. Ay, and forgotten thy 

foster-brother too. 
Count. Bird-babl)le for my falcon ! 
Let it pass. 
What art thou doing there? 
Elisabetta. Darning your lordship. 



flaunt it in new feathers 
will buv diamond 



W e cannol 

now 
Nay, if w. 

laces 
To please our lady, we nuis 

lord. 
This old thing here (fioints 

rmind her neck), th 

blue beads — my Piero 




he bouglit 
arry 



his honest 
"em for me, 
.^y, but he knew I meant 

him. 

How couldst thou do it, mv son .' 

How couldst thou do il .> 

Count. She saw it at a dance, upon 

a neck 

Less lovely than her own, and long'd 

for it. 

Elisabetta. She told thee as nuicli .> 

Count. No, no— a tiiend of 

hers. 
Elisabetta. Shame cjn her that she 
took it at thy hand.s. 
She rich enough to have liouuht it lor 
herself! 
Count. She would have robb'd me 

then of a great pleasure. 
Elisabetta. 15ut hath she yet re- 

turn'd thy love .' 
Count. Not yet ! 





E/iialvfUi. She slioiild return thy 

nickUce then. 
Count. Av, if 

She knew the giver ; but I bound the 

seller 
I'o silence, and I left it privily 
At Florence, in her palace. 

Elisahctta. And sold thine o«n 

To buy it for her. She not know '1 
She knows 

I'here's none such other 

Count. Madman anywliere. 

Speak freely, tho' to call a madman 

mad 
Will hardly help to make him sane 
again. 

Enter KiLlI'Ho. 

Filipfo. Ah, the women, the 
women ! Ah, Monna Giovanna, you 
here again ! you that have the face of 
an angel and the heart of a — that's too 
positive! You that have a score of 
lovers and have not a heart for any of 
them — that's positive-negative : you 
that have not the head of a toad, and 
not a heart like the jewel in it — that's 
too negative; you that have a cheek 
like a peach and a heart like the stone 
in it — that's positive again — that's bet- 
ter ! 

Elisabelta. Sh— sh— Filippo ! 

Filippo (turns half rmtnd). Here 
has our master been a-glorifying and 
a-velveting and a-silking himself, and 
a-peacocking and a-spreading to catch 
her eye for a dozen year, till he hasn't 
an eye left in his own tail to flourish 
among the pea-hens, and all along o' 
you, Monna Giovanna, all along o' 



l-.lisahctta. Sh—sh— Filippo! Can't 
vou hear that you are saying be- 
hind his l)ack what you see'you are 
saying afore his face? 

Count. I.et him — he never spares 
me to my face ! 
Filippo. No, my lord, I never spare 
r lordship to your lordship's face, 
behind your lordship's back, nor 
right, nor to left, nor to round 
ut and back to your lordship's 





face again, for I'm hoi 
ship. 

Count. Come, come, Kilii>po. what 
is there in the larder .' 

[Klisabetta crosses to fireplace ami 
puts on wooil. 

Filippo. Shelves and hooks, shelves 
and hooks, and when I see the shelves 
I am like to hang mvself on the hooks. 

Count. No bread .' 

Filippo. Half a breakfast for a rat I 

Count. Milk.' 

Filippo. Three laps for a cat ! 

Count. Cheese.' 

Filippo. A supper for twelve mites. 

Count. Kggs .' 

Filippo. One, but addled. 

Count. No bird .' 

Filippo. Half a tit and a hern's bill. 

Count. Let be thy jokes and tliy 
jerks, man ! Anything or nothing.' 

Filippo. Well, my lord, if all-biii 
nothing be anything, and one plate of 
dried prunes be all-but-nothing, then 
there is anything in your lordship's 
larder at your lordsh'ip's service, if 
your lordship care to call for it. 

Conn/. Good mother, happy was 
the prodigal son. 
For he return'd to the rich father; I 
But ac!d my poverty to thine. And all 
Thro' following of my fancy. Pray 

thee make 
Thv slender meal out of tho>c scraps 

and shreds 
Filippo spoke of. As for him and mc. 
There sprouts a salad in the garden 

still. 
( To the Falcon.) Why didst thou miss 

thy quarry yester-even .' 
To-day, my beauty, thou must dash us 

Our dinner from the skies. Away. 
Filippo! 

[Exit,/ollo7tte,l l>y Filippo. 
Elisahetia. I knew it would come 
to this. She has beggared him. I 
always knew it wonld come to this ! 
[Goes up to table as if to rcnime darn- 
ins;, and looks out of -oindaio.) Why, 
as I live, there is Monna Giovanna 
coming down the hill from the castle. 
Stops and stares at our cottage. Ay, 





u at it; it's all yuu have left us. 
311 you ! S/ic beautiful : sleek 
ller's mouse ! Meal enough, 
jh, well fed; but beautiful 
— bah ! Nay, sec, why she turns 
down the path through our little vine- 
yard, and I sneezed three times this 
morning. Coming to visit my lord, 
for the first time in her life too! 
Why, bless the saints ! I'll be bound 
to confess her love to him at last. I 
forgive her, I forgive her ! I knew it 
would come to this — I always knew it 
must come to this I {Going ii/> to 
ilom- during taller part of speech 
and opens it.) Come in, Madonna, 
come in. (Retires to front of tiible and 
curtseys as the Lady Cliovanna enters, 
then moz'es chair ttnvards the hearth.) 
Nay, let me place this chair for your 
ladyship. 

[Lady Giovaiina mm'es slowly 
do7vn stage^ then crosses to chair, 
looking about her, io^os as she 
sees the Madonna aver fireplace, 
then sits in chair. 
Lady Giovanna. Can I speak with 
the Count ? 

Klisahetta. Ay, my lady, but won't 
you speak with the old woman first, 
and tell her all about it and make her 
happy f for I've been on my knees 
every day for these half-dozen years 
in hope that the saints would send us 
this blessed morning ; and he always 
t.iok you so kindly, he always took the 
world so kindly. When he was a 
little one, and I put the bitters on my 
breast to wean him, he made a wry 
mouth at it, but he took it so kindly, 



ladvshi 



hit- 



ters enough in this world, and he never 
made a wry mouth at you, he always 
to.ili you .so kindly — which is more 
than I did, my lady, more than I did 
— and he so handsome — and bless 
your sweet face, you look as beautiful 
ling as the very Madonna her 
own self — and better late than never 
— but come when they will — then or 
now — it's all for the best, come when 
they will — they are made by the 
blessed saints — these marriages. 





\Kttises her hands. 
Lady Giovanna. Marriages? I shall 

never marry again ! 
Elisabelta (rises and turns). Shame 

on her then ! 
Lady Giotmnna. Where is the 

Elisahetta. Just gone 

To fly his falcon. 

Lady GiovaniM. Call him back and 
say 
I come to breakfast with him. 

Elisabelta. Holy mother ! 

To breakfast ! Oh sweet saints ! one 

plate of prunes ! 
Well, Madam, I will give your mes- 
sage to him. \Exit. 
Lady Giovanna. His falcon, and I 
come to ask for his falcon, 
The pleasure of his eyes — boast of his 

hand — 
Pride of his heart — the solace of his 

hours- 
His one companion here — nay, I have 

heard 
That, thro' his late magnificence of 

And this last costly gift to mine own 

self, \Sho7iis diamond necklace. 
He hath become so beggar'd, that his 

falcon 
Ev'n wins his dinner for him in the 

field. 
That must be talk, not truth, but 

truth or talk. 
How ran I ask for his falcon .' 

\Rises and moz'cs as she speaks. 
O my sick boy ! 
My daily fading Florio, it is thou 
1 lath set me this hard task, for when 

I say 
What can I do — what can I get for 

thee .' 
He answers, ' Get the CoinU to give 

me his falcon. 
And that will make me well.' Yet if 

I ask. 
He loves me, and he knows I kn 

he loves me ! 
Will he not pray nie In re 





truck my grandsire 



At Florence, and my grandsire stabb'( 



The feud between our houses is the 

bar 
1 cannot cross ; I dare not brave my 

brother, 



Kreak 



■ith 



my kii 



Mv brother 



hates him, scorns 
The noblest-natured man alive, and I — 
Who have that reverence for him that 

Dare beg him to receive his diamonds 

back — 
How can I, dare I, ask him for his 

falcon ? 

[Pir/s ,i,„motuh i„ li.r caskft. 



Count. Do what I said ; I cannot 

do it myself. 
Filippo. Why then, my lord, we 

are pauper'd out and' out. 
Count. Do what I said I 

\Athaiu\s ami Imvs Imv. 
Welcome to this poor cottage, my 

dear lady. 
Lniiy Gim'aiina. .And welcome 

turns a cottage to a palace. 
Count. 'Tis long since we have 

Liidy Gimiannn. To make amends 
I come this day to break my fast with 
you. 
Count. I am much honor'd — yes — 
[7«rH,f A; Filippo. 
Do what I told thee. .Must I do it 
myself ? 
Fi/ifpo. I will, I will. (.SV-//.r.) 
Poor fellow! [Exit. 

Count. Lady, you bring your light 
into my cottage 
Who never deign'd to shine into my 

palace. 
My palace wanting you was but a 

cottage ; 
My cottage, while you grace it, is a 
palace. 
Liii/y C/ifiinnc. In cottage or in 





Beyond your fortunes, you are still the 

king 
Of courtesy and liberality. 

Count. I trust I still maintain my 
courtesy ; 
-Vly liberality perforce is dead 
Thro' lack of means of giving. 

Liuiy Giirvanna. Yet I conic 

To ask a gift. 

[Mmies toward liim a little. 
Count. It will be hard, I fear, 

To find one shock upon the field when 

all 
The harvest has been carried. 

Lady Giavanna. But iny boy — 

(Aside.) No, no! not yet — I cannot! 
Count. Ay, how is he. 

That bright inheritor of your eyes — 
your boy .' 
Lady Gio^'anna. Alas, my Lord 
Federigo, he hath falleii 
Into a sickness, and it troubles me. 
Count. Sick ! is it so .' why, when 
he came last year 
To .see me hawking, he was well 

enough : 
And then I taught him all our hawk- 
ing-phrases. 
Lady Giovanna. Oil yes, and once 

you let him fly your falcon. 

Couiit. How charm'd he was ! 

what wonder ? — A gallant bov, 

.K noble bird, each perfect of the 

breed. 

Lady Giovanna (sinks in chair). 

What do you rate her at ? 

Count. My bird ? a hundred 

Gold pieces once were offer'd by the 

Duke. 
I had no heart to part with her for 
money. 
Lady Gunauna. No, not for money. 
[Count turns aioay and sighs. 
W herefore do you sigh .' 
Count. I have lost a friend of late. 
Lady Gio^'anna. I could sigh with 

For fear of losing more than friend, a 



And if he leave me — all the 

life— 
That wither'd wreath were . 





The Falcon. 



[Looiiii^ at wreat/i on wall. I 



fhat wither'd wreath is of 
voith to me 
rhan all the blossom, all the leaf uf 

Cew-wakening year. 

[Goes mid takes down wr,alli. 
Lady Gicrvanna. And yet I never 
saw 
rhe land so rich in blossom as this 
year. 
Count {holding 7orealh tt^icard //*■/■). 
Was not the year when this 
was gather'd richer ? 
Lady Gio^'anna. How long ago 



that ; 



Alas, ten i 



.•\ lady that was beautifnl as day 

Sat by me at a rustic festival 

With other beauties on a mountain 
meadow, 

.-\nd she was the most beautiful of all ; 

Then hut fifteen, and still as beauti- 
ful. 

The mountain flowers grew thickly 
round about. 

I made a wreath with some of these ; 
I ask'd 

.■\ ribbon from her hair to bind it 
with ; 

I whisper'd. Let me crown you Queen 
of Beauty, 

.■\nd softly placed the chaplet on her 
head. 

.\ color, which has color'd all mv 
life, 

Flush'd in her face ; then I was call'd 
away ; 

.^nd presently all rose, and so de- 
parted. 

.•\h I she had thrown my chaplel on 
the grass, 

.\nd there I found it. 

[Lt'ts his hands fall^ holding 
ivnath despondingly. 
Lady Gionanna (after paust). How 

long since do you say ? 
Count. That was the very year be- 
fore you married. 
Ladv Gi07'anna . When I was mar- 
ried vou were at the wars. 
Count. Had she not thrown my 
chaplet on the grass, 




It may be I had 
wars. 
[Replaces wreath whene. 
taken it. 

Lady Giaz'anna. Ah, but, my lord, 
there ran a rumor then 
That you were kill'd in battle. I can 

' tell you 
True tears that year were shed for you 
in Florence. 
Count. It might have been as well 
for me. Unhappily 
I was but wounded by the eneniv 

there 
And then imprisou'd. 

Lady Gio^'nnna. Happily, how- 
ever, 
I see you quite recover'd of your 

Count. No, no, not quite, Madonna, 
not yet, not yet. 

Re-enter FiLIPPO. 

Filippo. My lord, a word with you. 
Count. Pray, pardon me ! 

I Lady Giovanna crosses, and 
passes behind chair and takes 
dmvn wreath ; then goes to chair 
by table. 
CV««/'(/c Filippo). What is it. Fi- 
lippo ? 
Filippo. Spoons, your lordship. 
Count. Spoons ! 

Filippo. Yes. my lord, for wasn't 
my lady borii with a golden spoon in 
her ladyship's mouth, and we haven't 
never so ninch .is a silver one for the 
golden lips of her ladyship. 

Count. Have we not half a score 

of silver spoons.' 
Filippo. Half o' one, my lord ! 
Count. How half of one .' 
Filippo. I trod upon him even now, 
my lord, in my hurry, and broke him. 
Count. And the other nine ? 
Filippo. Sold! but shall I not 
mount with your lordship's leave to 
her ladyship's castle, in your lord- 
ship's and her ladyship's name, and 
confer with her ladyship's sene.schal, 
and so descend again with some of 
her ladyship's own appurtenances .' 





Count. Why — no, man. Only see 

your cloth be clean. [Exit Filippo. 

Lady Giffvanna. Ay. ay. this faded 

ribbon was the mode 

In Florence ten years back. What's 

here.> a scroll 
Pinned to the wreath. 

My lord, you have said so much 
Of this poor wreath that I was bold 

enough 
To take it down, if but to guess what 

flowers 
.Had made it; and I find a written 

scroll 
That seems to run in rhymings. Might 
I read ? 
Count. Ay, if yx>u will. 
Liidy Gimanna. It should be if 
you can. 
[Reads.] ' Dead mountain.' Nay, for 

who cnuld trace a hand 
So wild .ind staggering.' 

Count. This was penn'd. Madonna, 
('lo.>e to the grating on a winter 

In the perpetual twilight of a prison. 
When he that made it, having his 

right hand 
Lamed in the battle, wrote it with his 

left. 
Lady Giir'aiimi. O heavens ! the 

very letters seem to shake 
\\ ith cdkl, with pain perhaps, poor 

prisoner ! Well, 
fell me the words— or better— for 1 

There goes a musical score along 
with them. 

Repeat them to their music. 

Count. You can touch 

No chord in me that would not an- 
swer you 



Oead 




Lady Gioranna. That is musically 
said. 
(Count talw guitar. Lady tJio- 
vanna sit.< listening with iureat/i 
in her hand, and quietly ;•<•- 
7nmes scroll and places it on 
table at the end of the song. 
Count (sings, playing guitar). 
juntain flowers, dead 
meadow flowers. 




Dearer than when you made your 
mountain gay. 

Sweeter than any violet of to-dav. 

Richer than all the wide world-wealth 
of May, 

To me, tho' all your bloom has died 
away, 

V'ou bloom again, dead mountain- 
meadow flowers.' 



Enter Elisaketi A -uiith cloth. 



Elisabetta. A wc 

lord! 
Count {singing). 

flowers ! ' 
Elisabetta. A v 

(Louder). 
Count (sings). 
Elisabetta. 

(Louder). 






pray you |)ardon 



lath. 



again ! 

[Lady Giovanna looking at loi 

Count (to Elisabetta). ' W hat is it ? 

Elisabetta. My lord, we have but 

one piece of earthenware to serve the 

salad in to my lady, and that cracked ! 

Count. Why then, that flower'd 

Ketch 'd from' the farthest east— we 

For fear of breakage— but this day 

has brought 
.•\ great occa.sion. Nou can take it, 
nurse ! 
Elisabetta. I did take it, my lord, 
but what with my lady's coming thai 
had so flurried nie, and what with the 
fear of breaking it, I did lireak it, my 
lord : it is broken I 

Count. My one thing left of value 

in the world ! 

No matter! see your cloth be white as 

snow ! 

Elisabetta (pointing thro' window). 

White.' I warrant thee, my son, as 

the snow yonder on the very tip-top o' 

Count. And yet to speak white 
truth, mv good old mother, 
I have seen it like the snow on the 
moraine. 





EUsabetta. How can your lordship 
say so ? There my lord ! 

\Lays cloth. 
O my dear son, be not unkind to me. 
And one word more. \Going — returns. 
Cminl (touching guitar). Good ! let 

it be but one. 
Elisal>etla. Hath she return'd thy 

Count. Not yet ! 

EUsabetta. And will she .> 

Coutit {looking at Lady Giovanna). 

I scarce believe it ! 
EUsabetta. Shame upon her then ! 

\Ex,t. 
Count (sings). ' Dead mountain 

flowers ' 

Ah well, my nurse has broken 
The thread of my dead flowers, as she 

has broken 
My china bowl. My memory is as 
dead. 

[Goes and replaces guitar. 
Strange that the words at home with 

me so long 
Should fly like bosom friends when 

needed most. 
So bv your leave if you would hear 

the rest. 
The writing. 
Laily Giovanna (holding wreath 
toward him). There ! my lord, 
you are a poet, 
And can you not imagine that the 

wreath, 
Set, as you say, so lightly on her head. 
Fell with her motion as she rose, and 

she, 
A girl, a child, then but fifteen, how- 
ever 
Flutter'd or flatter'd by your notice of 

her. 
Was yet too bashful to return fur it ? 
Count. Was it so indeed .•" was it 

so ? was it so .' 
{Leans forward to take wreath, and 
touches Lady Giovanna's hand, 
which she withdraws hastily ; he 
places 7vreath on corner of chair. 
Lady Giovanna (with digtiity). I 
did not say, my lord, that it 
was so ; 
lid you might ijnagine it was so. 





Enter FlLIPHi with 

which he places on table. 

Filippo. Here's a fine salad for my 
lady, for tho' we have been a soldier, 
and ridden by his lordshi|)'s side, and 
seen the red of the battle-field, yet are 
we now drill-sergeant to his lordship's 
lettuces, and profess to be great in 
gree i-things and in garden-stuff. 

Lady Giovanna. I thank thee, good 
Filippo. \Exit Filippo. 

Enter Elisabetta with bird on a dish 
which she places on table. 
EUsabetta (close to table). Here's a 
fine fowl for my lady ; I had scant 
time to do him in. I hope he be not 
underdone, for we be undone in the 
doing of him. 

Lady Giarvanna. I thank you, my 

good nurse. 
Filippo (re-entering with plate of 
prunes). And here are fine fruits for 
my lady — prunes, my lady, from the 
tree that my lord himself planted here 
in the blossom of his boyhood — and 
so I, Filippo, being, with your lady- 
ship's pardon, and as your ladyship 
knows, his lordship's own foster- 
brother, would commend them to your 
ladyship's most peculiar appreciation. 
{Puts plate on table. 
EUsabetta. Filippo ! 
Lady Giot'anna (Count leads her to 
table). Will you not eat with 
me, my lord ? 
Count. 1 cannot, 

Not a morsel, not one morsel. I have 

broken 
Mv fast already. 1 will pledge you 

Wine! ■ 
Filippo, wine ! 

\Sits near table . Filippo brings 
flask, fills the Count's goblet, then 
Lady Giovanna's ; EUsabetta 
stands at the Inick of Lady Gio- 
vanna's chair. 
Count. It is but thin and cold, 

Not like the vintage blowing round 

your castle. 
We lie too deep down in the shadow 





ladyship lives highe 



the 



I They pledge each other and driuk. 
LiiJy Gim/aiina. If I might send 
you down a flask or two 
( )f that same vintage ? There is iron 

in it. 
It has been much commended as a 

medicine. 
I give it my sick son, and if you be 
Not quite recover'd of your wound, 



Mighl 



the' 



has ever told 




:-lp you 
me yet 
■['he story of your battle and your 
wound. 
Filippo [coming foiivard). I can 
tell you, my lady, I can tell you. 

Elisabelta. Filippo 1 will you take 
the word out of your master's own 
mouth .> 

Filippo. Was it there to take .' 
Put it there, my lord. 

Count. Giovanna, my dear lady, 
in this same battle 
We had been beaten — they were ten 

to one. 
The trumpets of the fight had echo'd 

down, 
I and Filippo here had done our 

best. 
And, having passed unwounded from 

the field, 
Were seated sadly at a fountain side. 
Our horses grazing by us, when a 

troop. 
Laden with booty and with a flag of 
ours 

Ta'en in the fight 

filippo. Ay, but we fought for it 
back. 

And kill'd 

Elisabelta. Filippo! 

Count. A troop of horse 

Filippo. Five hundred I 

Count. Say fifty ! 

Filippo. And we kill'd 'em by the 

score ! 
Elisahetta. Filippo ! 
Filippo. Well, well, well ! 

I bite my tongue. 
Count. We may have left their 
fifty less by five. 




However, staying 

many. 
Hut anger'd at thi 

flag. 
We mounted, and 

heart of 'em. 
I wore the lady's cbaplet round my 

neck ; 
It served me for a blessed rosary. 
I am sure that more than one brave 

fellow owed 
His death to the charm in it. 

Elisahetta. Hear that, my lady ! 

Count. I cannot tell how long we 

strove before 
Our horses fell beneath us ; down we 

Crush'd, hack'd at, trampled under- 
foot. The night. 
As some cold-manner'd friend may 

strangely do us 
The truest service, had a touch of 

frost 
That help'd to check the flowing of 

the blood. 
My last sight ere I swoon'd was one 

sweet face 
Crown'd with the wreath. That 

seem'd to come and go. 
They left us there for dead ! 

Elisahetta. Hear that, my lady ! 

Filippo. Ay, and I left two fingers 
there for dead. .See, my lady ! 
(Sho7oing his hand.) 
Lady Giot'anna. I see, Filippo ! 
Filippo. And I have small hope of 
the gentleman gout in mv great toe. 
Lady Gimmnna. And why, Fi- 
lippo ? [Smiling absently. 
Filippo. I left him there for dead 

Elisahetta. She smiles at him — 
how hard the woman is ! 
My lady, if your ladyship were not 
Too proud to look iipon the garland, 
vou 

Would' find it stain'd 

Count [rising). Silence, 

betta ! 
Elisabelta. Stain'd with the blood 
of the best heart that ever 
Beat for one woman. 

[Points to wreath on chair. 





And afterwards a boon to crave of 



Lady Gimanna [rising sli^o/y). I ' My lord, I have a presi 

can eat no more ! 
Count. You have but trifled with 
our homely salad, 
But dallied with a single lettuce-leaf; 
Not eaten anything. 

Lady Gim'aima. Nay, nay, I can- 




You know, my lord, I told you I was 

troubled. 
My one child Florio lying still so 

sick, 
I bound myself, and by a solemn vow. 
That I would touch no flesh till he 

were well 
Here, or else well in Heaven, where 
all is well. 
[Elisabetta clears table of bird and 
salad: Filippo stiatches up the 
plate of prunes and holds them to 
Lady Giovanna. 
Filippo. But the prunes, my lady, 

from the tree that his lordship 

Lady Gimianna. Not now, Filippo. 
My lord Federigo, 
Can I not speak with you once more 
alone ? 
Count. You hear, Filippo .' My 

good fellow, go ! 
Filippo. Hut the prunes that your 

lordship 

Elisabetta. Filippo ! 

Count. .\y, prune our company of 

thine own and go ! 
Elisabetta. Filippo! 
Filippo (turning). Well, well ! the 
women ! [Exit. 

Count. And thou too leave us, my 

dear nurse, alone. 
Elisabetta (folding up cloth and 
going). And me too ! Ay, the dear 
nurse will leave you alone ; but, for all 
that, she that has eaten the yolk is 
scarce like to swallow the shell. 

[ Turns and curtseys stiffly to Lady 
Giovanna, then exit. Lady Gio- 
vanna takes out diamond necklace 
from casket, 
dy Gio7<anna. I have anger'd 
your good nurse ; these old- 
world servants 
all but flesh and blood with those 




Count. No, my most honor'd and 

long-worshipt lady. 
Poor Federigo degli Alberighi 
Takes nothing in return from you 

except 
Return of his affection — can deny 
Nothing to you that you require of 

him. 
Lady Gio^'amm. Then I require 

you to take back your dia- 
monds — [Offering necklace. 
I doubt not they are yours. No 

other heart 
Of such magnificence in courtesy 
Beats — out of heaven. They seem'd 

too rich a prize 
To trust with any messenger. I came 
In person to return them. 

f Count dra-MS back. 
If the phrase 
' Return ' displease you, we will say — 

exchange them 

For your — for your 

Count (takes a step tmoard lur and 

then back). For mine — and 

what of mine .' 
Lady Giovanna. Well, shall we 

say this wreath and your sweet 

rhymes .> 
Count. But have you ever worn 

my diamonds .' 
I^ady Giovanna. No ! 

For that would seem accepting of your 

love. 
I cannot brave my brother — but be 

That I shall never marry again, mv 
lord ! 
Count. Sure ? 
Lady Giovanna. Yes I 
Count. Is this your brother's 

order .> 
Lady CioTianna. No ! 

P'or he would marry me to the richest 



[n Florence-; but I 
the saying — 
Better a man without 





Count. A noble saying — and acted 

on would yield 
A nobler breed of men and women. 

Lady, 
I find you a shrewd bargainer. The 

wreath 
That once you wore outvalues twentv- 

lold 
The diamonds that you never deign'd 

to wear. 
But lay them there for a moment ! 
[Points to tahii: Lady Giovanna 
places tiicklacc on table. 

And be you 
Gracious enough to let me know the 

boon 
By granting which, if aught be mine 

to grant, 
1 should be made move happy than I 

hoped 
Ever to be again. 

Ltuly Gio^'anna. Then keep your 

wreath. 
But you will find me a shrewd bar- 
gainer still. 
I cannot keep your diamonds, for the 

gift 
T ask for, to my mind and at this 

present 
Outvalues all the jewels upon earth. 
Count. It should be love that thus 

outvalues all. 
Vou speak like love, and yet you love 

I have nothing in this world but love 
for you. 
Lady Gimmnna. Love ? it is love, 
love for my dying boy. 
Moves me to ask it of you. 

Count. What .■' my lime ? 

Is it mv time.'' Well, I can "Ive my 



To him that is a part of you, vour son. 
Shall I return to the castle with vou .> 

Shall I 
Sit by him, read to him, tell him my 

tales, 
ing him my songs ? You know that 

" can touch 
The ghittern to some purpose 

Lady Gio-.'anna. No, not that ! 

I thank you heartilv for that — and 





I doubt not from your noble 

Will pardon me for asking wh 

ask. 
Cotint. Giovanna, dear Giovanna, 

I that once 
The wildest of the random youth of 

Florence 
Before I saw you— all my nobleness 
Of nature, as you deign to call ii, 

draws 
From you, and from my constancy to 

No more, but speak. 
Lady Gim'anna. I will. You know 

sick people. 
More specially sick children, have 

strange fancies, 
Strange longings ; and to thwart thein 

in their mood 
.May work them grievous harm at 

times, may even 
Hasten their end. I would you had a 

son! 
It might be easier then for you to 

make 
Allowance for a mother — her — who 

comes 
To rob you of your one delight on 

earth. 
How often has my sick boy yearn'd 

for this ! 
I have put him off as often ; but to- 
day 
I dared not — so much weaker, so 

much worse 
For last day's journey. 1 was weei>- 

ing for hiin ; 
He gave me his hand ; ' 1 should be 

well again 

If the good Count would give me ' 

Count. Give me. 

Lady Giovanna. His falcon. 

Count (starts had). My falcon ! 
Lady Giovanna. Ves, your falcon, 

Federigo ! 
Count. .Mas, I cannot ! 
Lady Gio7'anna. Cannot.' Kven 



fear'd as much. 

low shall i break 
shall I tell him 





I lie boy may die : mure blessed were 

t he rags 
I >l some pale beggar-woman seeking 

alms 
Kor her siek son, if he were like to 

live, 
Than all my childless wealth, if mine 

I was to blame — the love you said you 
bore me — 

Mv lord, we thank vou for vour enter- 
tainment, imt/i ,1 staUly 
curtsey. 

.\nd so return — Heaven help him ! — 

to our son. \Tiirns. 

Coiiiit (rushes forward). Stay, 

stay, I am most unlucky, most 

unhappy. 

You never had look'd in on me be- 
fore, 

And when you came and dipt your 
sovereign head 

Thro' these low doors, you ask'd to 
eat with nie. 

1 had but emptiness to set before 

No not a draught of milk, no not an 

egg. 
Nothing but mv brave bird, my noble 

falcon, 
Mv comrade of the house, and of the 

field. 
She had to die for it— she died for 

you. 
Perhaps I thought with those of old, 

the nobler 
The victim was. the more acceptable 
Might be the sacrifice. I fear you 

scarce 
Will thank me for your entertainment 

now. 
Lady Giirvanmi (returning). 1 bear 

with him no longer. 
Count. No, Madonna ! 

And he will have to bear with it as 

he may. 
Lady Gicrviinnii. I break with him 

forever ! 
Count. Yes, Giovanna, 





But he will keep his love to \ 
ever! 
Lady Gio-.iann,,. You? you? not 
you ! My brother I my hard 
brother 1 

Federigo, Federigo, I love you ! 
Spite of ten thousand brothers, Fed- 
erigo. [Fii/ls at /lis feet. 

Count (impetuously). Why then 
the dying of my noble bird 
Hath served me better than her living 
— then 

I Takes diamonds from table. 
These diamonds are both yours and 

mine — have won 
Their value again — beyond ail mar- 
kets — there 

1 lay them for the first time round 

your neck. 
\Lays necklace round her neck. 

.\nd then this chaplet — No more 
feuds, but peace, 

I'eace and conciliation ! 1 will 
make 

Your brother love me. See, ! tear 
away 

The leaves were darken'd by the bat- 
tle— 

yPitlls leai'es off and t/iroros them doivn. 

Again with the same crown my Queen 
of Beauty. 

[Places wreath on her head. 
Kise — 1 could almost -think that the 

dead garland 
Will break once more into the living 

blossom. 
Nay, nay, I pray you rise. 

\fiaises her with both hands. 

We two together 

Will help to heal your son — your son 

and mine — 
We shall do it— we shall do it. 

[Embraces her. 
The purpose ot mv being is accom- 

plish'd. 
And I am happy ! 
Lady Gici'anna. .And I too, Fed- 
erigo. 





THE P R O M I S P: of MAY 

A surface man of theories, true to none.' 

DRAMA TIS FERSOi\yE. 
Farmer Dobson. 

Mr. Philip Edgar \<i/terwards Mr. Harold). 
FAR.MER Steer (Doka and Eva's Father). 
Mr. Wilson (a Schoolmaster). 




H.CC.NS \ 

James I 

Dan Smith V 

Jackson 

Allbn ; 



(■ Farm Servants. 

Serr'af'ts, Laborers, etc. 



ACT I. 

SCENE.— Before Fa 



rmini: Men and Women. Farm- 
ing Men carrying forms, etc.. Women 
■arrying baskets of knives ami forks. 



1st farming Man. Be thou a- 
gawin' to the long barn .' 

2m/ Farming Mail. .\y, to be 
sewer ! Be thou ? 

1st Farming Man. Why, o' coorse, 
fur it be the owd man's birthdaay. 
He be heighty this very daay. and 'e 
telled ail on us to be i' the long barn 
by one o'clock, fur he'll gie us a big 
dinner, and haafe th' parish '11 be 



theer, an' Mi: 
all! 



Do I 



Miss Eva, 
Miss Dora be 



2//(/ Farming Mai 
coomed back, then .' 

1st Farming Man. Ay, haafe a 
hour ago. She be ii> theer nov 
{Pointing to house.) Owd Steer wi 
afeard she wouldn't be back i' tiiii 
to keep his birthdaay, and he wur in 
tew about it all the murnin'; and h 
sent me wi' the gig to Littlechester t 




two sweet'arts i' the poorch as soon 
as he clapt eyes of 'er. 

2nd Farming Man. Foalks says he 
likes Miss Eva the best. 

\st Farming Man. Naay, I knaws 
nowt o' what foalks says, an' I caares 
nowt neither. Foalks doesn't hallus 
knaw thessens ; but sewer I be, they 
be two o' the purtiest gels ye can see 
of a summer murnin'. 

2nd Farming Man. Beant Miss 
Eva gone off a bit of 'er good looks o' 
laate .' 

\st Farming Man. Noa, not a bit. 

2nd Farming Man. Why coom 
awaay, then, to the long barn. 

[Exeunt. 

window. Enter 



The 



Dora {singing). 
i lay still in the low sun- 



light. 
The hen cluckt late by the white farm 

gate. 
The maid to her dairy came in fr 

the cow. 
The stock-dove coo'd at the fall of 

night, 
The blossom had open'd on every 

bough ; 





The Promise of May 



C) joy for the promise of May, of 

May, 
O joy for the promise of May. 
(NoiUing at Dobson.) I'm coming 
clown, Mr. Dobson. I haven't seen 
Eva yet. Is she anywhere in the 
garden .> 

Dobson. Noil, Miss. I ha'n't seed 
'er neither. 

Dora [enU'7-s sin^ng). 
But a red fire wolce in the heart of the 

And a fox from the glen ran away 

with the hen. 
And a cat to the cream, and a rat to 

the cheese; 
And the stock-dove cnoVI, till a kite 

dropt down, 
And a salt wind burnt the blossoming 

trees ; 
() grief for the promise of May, of 

May, 
O grief for the promise of May. 

I don't know why 
don't love it. 

Dolisov. Blessings on your pretty 
voice, Miss Dora. Wheer did they 
larn ye that ? 

Dora. In Cumberland, Mr. Dob- 
son. 

Dolisoii. An' how did ye leave the 
owd uncle i' Coomberland .> 

Dora. Getting better, Mr. Dobson. 
But he'll never be the same man again. 

Dobson. An' how d'ye find the owd 
man 'ere ? 

Dora. As well as ever. I came 
back to keep his birthday. 

Dobson. Well, I be coomed to keep 
his birthdaay an' all. The owd man 
be heighty to-daay, beant he ? 

Dora. Yes, Mr. Dobson. And the 
day's bright like a friend, but the wind 
east like an enemy. Help me to move 
tills bench for him into the sun. 
( T/iey mozic- bench.) No, not that wav 
—here, under the apple tree. Thanlc 
you. Look how full of rosy blossom 
it is. [Poinling lo apple tree. 

Dobson. Theer be redder blossoms 
nor them, Miss Dora. 



sing that song ; I 





do they blow 



Do, a. Whc 
Dobson y 

Dobson. L'nder your eyes. Mi: 
Dora. 

Dora. Do they } 

Dobson. And your eyes be as blue 

Dora. What, Mr. Dobson } A 
butcher's frock ? 

Dobson. Noa, Miss Dora ; as blue 
a.s 

Dora. Bluebell, harebell, speed- 
well, bluebottle, succory, forget-me- 
not ? 

Dobson. Noa, Miss Dora ; as blue 
as 

Dora. The sky ? or the sea on a 
blue day.' 

Dobson. Naay then. I niean'd 
they be as blue as violets. 

Dora. Are they ? 

Dobson. Theer ve goas agean. 
Miss, niver believing owt I says to ye 
— hallus a-fobbing ma off, tho' ye 
knaws I love ye. I warrants ye'll 
think moor o' this young Squire 
Edgar as ha' coomed among us — the 
Lord knaws how — ye'll think more on 
'is little finger than hall my hand at 
the haltar. 

Dora. Perhaps, Master Dobson. 
I can't tell, for I have never seen 
him. But my sister wrote that he 
was mighty pleasant, and had no 
pride in him. 

Dobson. He'll be arter you now, 
Miss Dora. 

Dora. Will he.' How can I tell .' 

Dobson. He's been arter Miss Eva, 
haan't he ? 

Dora. Not that I know. 

Dobson. Didn't I spy 'em a-sitting 
i' the woodbine harbor togither ? 

Dora. What of that? Eva told 
me that he was taking her likeness. 
He's an artist. 

Dobson. What's a hartist ? I doan't 
believe he's iver a 'eart under his 
waistcoat. And I tells ye what. Miss 
Dora : he's no respect for the (juceii 
or the parson, or the justice o' peace 
or owt. I ha' heard im a-gawin' oi 
'ud make your 'air — God bless it !- 




The Promise of May. 



on end. And wuss nor that. 
When theer wur a meeting o' farmers 
at Littlechester t'other daay, and they 
was all a-crying out at the bad times, 
he cooms up, and he calls out among 
our oan men, 'The land belongs to 
the people!" 

Dora. And what did von say to 
that? 

Dobson. Well, I says, s'pose my 
pig's the land, and you says it belongs 
to the parish, and theer be a thousand 
i' the parish, taalciii' in the women 
and childer ; and s'pose I kills my 
pig, and gi'es it among 'em, why there 
wudn't be a dinner (or nawbody, and 
1 should ha' lost the pig. 

Dora. And what did he say to 
that ? 

Dobson. Nowt — what could he 
saay .' But I taakes 'im fur a bad lot 
and a burn fool, and I haates the very 
sight on him. 

Dora (looking at Dobson). Master 
Dobson, you are a comely man to look 

Dobson. I thank you for that, Miss 
Dora, onyhow. 

Dora. Ay, but you turn right ugly 
when you're in an ill temper ; and I 
promise you that if you forget your- 
self in your Ijehavior to this gentle- 
man, my father's friend, 1 will never 
change word with you again. 



Knler Fa 



Man frc 





look at — yeas, 'cooml 



that be nowt to she, then it be 
tome. (Looking off stage.) School- 
master! Why if "Steer han't haxed 
schoolmaster to dinner, thaw 'e knaws 
I was hallus agean heving schoolmas- 
ter i' the parish ! fur him .is be handy 
wi' a book bean't but haiife a hand at 
a pitchfork. 



Farming Man. Miss, the farming 
Mien 'ull hev their dinner i' the long 
barn, and the master 'ud be straange 
an' pleased if you'd step in fust, and 
see that all be right and reg'lar fur 
'em afoor he cobm. \E.til. 

Dora. I go. Master Dobson, did 
vou hear what I said ? 

Dobson. Yeas, yeas ! I'll not med- 
dle wi' 'im if he doant meddle wi' 
mea. (Exit Dora.) Coomly, says 
she. I niver thowt o' niyscn i' that 
waay ; but if she'd taake to ma i' that 
waay, or ony waay, l*d slaave out my 
life fur 'ei. ' Coomly to look at,' says 
she — but she said it .spiteful-like, to 



Enter W1L.S0N. 

Well, Wilson. 1 seed that one cow 
"o thine i' the pinfold agean as 1 wur 
a-coomin" 'ere. 

WUson. Very likely, Mr. Dobson. 
She ■taill break fence. I can't keep 
her in order. 

Dobson. .\n' if tha can't keep thy 
one cow i' border, how can tha keep 
all thy scholards i' border ? Hut let 
that goa by. What dost a- know o' 
this Mr. Hedgar as be a-lodgin' wi' 
ye .' I coom'd upon 'im t'other daay 
lookin' at the coontry, then a-scrattin 
upon a bit o' iiaaper. then a-lookin' 
agean ; and I laaked 'im fur soom sort 
of a land-surveyor — but a beant. 

Wilson. He's a .Somer.setshire 
man, and a very civil-spoken gentle- 
man. 

Dobson. Gentleman ! What be ho 
a-doing here ten mile an' moor fro' a 
laail ? We laavs out o' the waay fur 
gentlefoalk altogither — leastwaays 
they niver cooms 'ere Init fur the trout 
i' our beck, fur they be knaw'd as far 
as Littlechester. But "e doant fish 
neither. 

Wilson. Well, it's no .sin in a gen- 

Dobson. Noa, but 1 haates 'iiii. 

Wilson. Better step out of his road, 
then, for he's walking to us, and with 
a book in his hand. 

Dobson. An' f liaates boobks an' 
all. fur they puts foalk off the owd 





Edgar. This author, with his 

charm of simple style 
And close dialectic, all but proving 

man 

An automatic series of sensations, 
Has often numb'd me into apathy 
Against the unpleasant jolts of this 

rough road 
That breaks off short into the abysses 

— made me 
A Quietist taking all things easily. 

Dot-son. {Asiik.) There mnn be 
summut wrong theer, Wilson, fur I 
doant understan' it. 

IVilsnu. (Aside.) \or I either, 
Mr. Dobson. 

Duhsoii [scornfully). An' thou 
<loant understan' it neither — and thou 
schoolmaster an' all. 

Edgar. What can a man, then, 

live for but sensations, 
Pleasant ones .' men of old would un- 
dergo 
Unpleasant for the .sake of pleasant 

ones 
Hereafter, like the Moslem beauties 

waiting 
To clasp their lovers by the golden 

gates. 
For me, whose cheerless Houris after 

death 
Are Night and Silence, pleasant ones 



for ever. It 
lis, 
ot for her sport ei 
knows nothing. 
I Man only knows, the worse for him ! 
for why 
Cannot he take his pastime like the 

flies .' 
And if my pleasure breed another's 

pain, 
W«ll— is not that the course of Xa- 



From the dii 



law 



-the whil 



the flowe 



If possible, here ! 
and pass. 

Dobson. Well, I never 'ciird the 
likes o' that afoor. 

m/so„. (Aside.) But I have, Mr. 
Dobson. It's the old Scripture text, 
' Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow 
we die.' I'm sorry for it, for. tho' he 
never comes to church, I thought bet- 
ter of him. 

Edgar. ' What are we, says thf 
blind old. man in I. car ? 
■ .■Ks flies to the Gods ; they kill us for 
their sport.' 

Dob.wii. [Aside.) Then the owd 
man i' Lear should be shaamed of 
hissen, but noan o' the parishes goiis 
bv that naame 'ereabouts. 

Edgar. The Gods! but they, the 
shadows of ourselves, 



Wherebv she grows 

her flies 
Must massacre each 

Nature ! 
Dobson. Natur ! Natu 



of Being — her 
in beauty — that 
ther ? this poor 



Well, it 




be i' my natur to knock 'im o' the 'ead 
now ; but I weant. 

Edgar. A Quietist taking all 
things easilj' — why- 
Have I been dippmg into this again 
To steel myself against the leaving 
her ? 

[Closes booh, seeing Wilson. 
Good day ! 

fF//j<'«. Good day, sir. 

[Dobson loois hard al Edgar. 
Edgar (lo Dobson). Have I the 
pleasure, friend, of knowing you .' 
Dobson. Dobson. 
Edi;ar Good dav, then, Dobson. 

[Exit. 
Dobson. 'Good daay then, Dob- 
son!' Civil-spoken i'deed! Why, 
Wilson; tha 'eard 'im thysen — the fel- 
ler couldn't find a Mister in his mouth 
fur me, as farms five hoonderd 
haacre. 

Wilson. You never find one for 
me. Mr. Dobson. 

Dobnon. Noa, fur thou be nubbut 
schoolmaster ; but I taakes 'im for a 
I Lunnnir swindler, and a burn fool. 

Wilson. He can hardly be both. 
[ and he pays me regular every .Salur- 
1 dav. 

Dob.um. Yeas; hul 1 hai 





The Promise of May. 



Steer (goes and sits uniier apple tree). 
Hev' ony o' ye seen Eva ? 

Dobson. Noa, Mr. Steer. 

Steer. Well, I reckons they'll hev' 
a fine cider-crop to-year if the blos- 
som 'owds. Good murnin'. neighbors, 
and the saame to you, my men. I 
taakes it kindly of all o' you that you 
be coomed — what's the newspaaper 
word, Wilson? — celebrate — to cele- 
brate my birthdaay i' this fashion. 
Niver man 'ed better friends, and I 
will saay niver master 'ed better men : 
fur thaw I may ha' fallen out wi' ye 
sometimes, the' fault, mebbe, wur as 
much mine as yours ; and, thaw I says 
it mysen, niver men 'ed a better mas- 
ter — and I knaws what men be, and 
what masters be, fur I wur nobbut a 
laaborer, and now I be a landlord — 
burn a plowman, and now, as far as 
money goas, I be a gentleman, thaw I 
beant naw scholard, fur I 'ednt naw 
time to maake mysen a scholard while 
1 wur maakin' mysen a gentleman, 
but I ha taaen good care to turn out 
boath my darters right down fine 
laddies. 

Dobson. An' soa they be. 



Soa (hev be ! 



;'he I^ord bles; 



\st Farming Man 
soa they be ! 

2nd Farming Man. 
boath on 'em ! 

yd Farming .\f an. An' the saan 
to you, Master. 

i^h Farming .Man. And long li 
to boath on 'em. .An' the saame 
vou, Master Steer, likewise. 

Steer. Thank ye ! 



Enter KvA. 

Wheer 'asta been.'' 
F.7!a (timidly). Many happy returns 
ot the day, father. 

Steer. They can't be many, my 
dear, but I oapes they'll be 'app'y. 

Whv, thn looks haale'anew 
honnderd. 
Steer. .\n' why shouldn't I last to 
hoonderd? Hiiale! whv shouldn't 
be hniile ? fur thaw I be heishty this 
crv daav, I niver 'es sa much as one 





pin's prick of paain ; an' I can taake 
my glass along wi' the youngest, fur I 
niver touched a drop of owt till my oan 
wedding-daay, an' then I wur turned 
huppads o' sixty. Why shouldn't I 
be liaale ? I ha'plowed the ten-aacre 
— it be mine now — afoor ony o' ye wm 
burn — ye all knaws the ten-aacre — I' 
mun ha' plowed it moor nor a hoon- 
derd limes; hallus hup at sunrise, 
and I'd drive the plow straait as a line 
right i' the faace o'thc sun. then back 
agean, a-follering my oan shadder — 
then hup agean i' the faace o' the sun. 
Kh ! how the sun 'ud shine, and the 
larks 'ud sing i' them daays, and the 
.smell o' the mou'd an' all. Eh ! if I 
could ha' gone on wi' the plowin' 
nobbut the .smell o' the mou'd 'ud ha' 
maade ma live as long as Jerusalem. 
Eva. Methusaleh, father. 
Steer. Ay, lass, but when thou be 
as owd as me thou'll put one word fur 
another as I does. 

Dobson. But, Steer, thaw thou lie 
haale anew I seed tha a-iimpin" up 
just now with the roomatics i' the 
knee. 

.Steer. Roomatics ! Noa ; I laame't 

my knee last night running arter a 

thief. }!eant there house-breakers 

j down i' Littlechester, I)ob.son — doant 

, ye hear of ony .' 

: Dobson. Ay, that there he. Im- 
I nianuel Goldsmiths was broke into o' 
! Monday night, and ower a hoonderd 
pounds worth o' rings stolen. 

.Steer. So I thowu and I heard the 
• winder — that's the winder at the end 
o' the passage, that goas bv thy chaum- 
ber. (Turning /o Eva.) " Why, lass, 
what maakes tha sa red .' Did 'e git 
into thv chaumber .' 
* Eva'. Father! 

Steer. Well, I runned arter thief i' 
the dark, and fell agean coalscuttle 
ha' 
[ coomed np he 
got thruff the winder agean. 

F.va. Got thro' the window again .' 

Steer. .\y, but he left the mark of 

'is foot i' the flower-bed ; now theer 

be noan o'my men, thinks I to iiivsen. 





The Promise of May. 



lid ha' done it "cep' il were Dan 
Smith, fur 1 cotched 'imoncea-stealiii' 
coals an' I sent fur im, an' I measured 
his foot wi' the mark i' the bed, but il 
wouldn't fit— seeams to me the mark 
wur maade by a I-unnun boot. (Looks 
■:t Eva.) Why, now, what maakes tha 
sa white .> 

Eva. Fright, father ! 

Sleer. Maakethyseneasy. I'llhev 
tlie winder naailed up, and put Tow ser 
under it. 

Eva (clasping her hands). No, no, 
father! Towser'll tear him all to 
pieces. 

Slecr. Let him keep awaay, then ; 
but coom, coom ! let's be gawin. They 
ha' broached a barrel of aale i' the 
long barn, and the fiddler be theer, 
and the lads and lasses 'ull hev a 
dance. 

Ez-a. (A^nle.) Dance! small 
heart have I to dance. I should seem 
to be dancing upon a grave. 

Steer. Wheer be Mr. Edgar? 
about the premises? 

Dohson. Hallus about the premises! 

Steer. So much the better, so 
much the better. I likes 'im, and 
Eva likes 'im. Eva can do owt wi' 
'im ; look for 'im. Eva, and bring 'im 
to the barn. He 'ant naw pride in 
'im, and we'll git 'im to speechify for 
us arter dinner. 

Eva. Yes, father ! \Exit. 

Steer. Coom along then, all the 
rest o' ye ! Churchwarden be a 
coomin, thaw me and 'im we niver 
'grees about the tithe ; and Parson 
mebbe, thaw he niver mended that 
gap i' the glebe fence as I telled 'im ; 
and Klacksmith, thaw he niver shoes 
a herse to my likings: and liaaker, 
thaw I sticks to hoam-maade — but all 
iin 'em welcome, all on 'em welcome ; 
:iiui I've hed the long barn cleared 
.)ut nf all the machines, and the sacks, 
and the taaters, and the mangles, and 
theer'll be room anew for all o' ye. 
Poller me. 

All. Yeas, yeas ! Three cheers 
for .Mr. Steer ! 
\Alt exeunt except Dobson into ham. 





Enter Edgar. 
j Dobson (who is going, turns). 
I Squire ! — if so be you be a squire. 
Edgar. Dobbins, \ think. 
Dobson. Dobbins, you thinks ; and 
I I thinks ye wears a Lunnun boot. 

EdKar. Well ? 
j Dobson. And I thinks I'd like lo 
j taake the measure o' your foot. 

Ed,.^ur. Ay, if you'd like to mea.s- 
ure your o»vn length upon the grass. 

Dobson. Coom, coom, that's a good 

un. Why, I could throw four o' ye ; 

but I promised one of the Misses I 

wouldn't meddle wi' ye, and I weant. 

[Exit into barn. 

Edi^ar. Jealous of me with Eva ! 

j Is it so? 

Well, tho' I grudge the prettv jewel, 
I that I 

Have worn, to such a clod, yet that 

might be 
The best way out of it, if the child 

could keep 
Her counsel. I am sure 1 wish her 

happy. 
IJut I must free myself from this en- 
tanglement. 
I have all mv life before me — so has 

she—' 
Give her a month or two, and her 

affections 
Will flower toward the light in some 

new face. 
Still I am half-afraid to meet her now. 
She will urge marriage on me. 1 

hate tears. 
Marriage is but an old tradition. I 

hate 
Traditions, ever since mv narrow 

father. 
After my frolic with his tenant's girl, 
Made vounger elder son, vinlated the 

whole 
Tradition of our land. an<l left his 

heir. 
Born, happily, with some sense of art, 

to live 
By brush and pencil. By and by, 

when Thought 
Comes down among the crowd, and 
man perceives that 






^ 


428 T/ie From 


sr of May. act ,. ■ 


1 




The lost gleam of an after-life but 


I was afraid of her, and I hid myself. 






leaves him 


We never kept a secret from each 


. , 








A beast of urev in the dark, why then 


other: 1 








tAa the crciwd 


She would have seen at once into mv '^ 






M.iv wreak my wrongs upon my 


trouble. 






wrongers. Marriage ! 


And ask'd me what I could not 






I'lmt fine, (at, hook-nosed uncle of 


answer. Oh, Philip, 






n.ine.old Harold, 


I'ather heard you last night. Our 






Who leaves me all his land at Littlt- 


savage ma.stiff. 






chesler. 


That all but kill'd the beggar, will be 






lie, too, would oust me from his will. 


placed 






if I 


Beneath the window, I'hilip. 






Made such a marriage. And mar- 


Edgar. Savage, is he .= 






riage in itself — 


What matters.' t^ome, give mc your 






The storm is hard at hand will sweep 


hand and kiss me 






away 


This beautiful May-morning. 






Thrones, churches, ranks, traditions, 


Eva. The most beautiful 


1 




customs, marriage 
One of the feeblest ! Then the man, 


May we have had for many years ! 
Edg.ir. And here 










the woman. 


Is the most beautiful morning of this 






I-ollowing their best affinities, will 


May. 






each 


Nay, you must smile upon me ! There 






Hid their old- bond farewell with 


-you make 






smiles, not tears; 


The May and morning still more 






Cood wishes, not reproaches; with 


beautiful. 






no fear 


Vou, the most beautiful blossom of 






1 )f the world's gossiping clamor, and 


the May. 






no need 


Eva. Dear Philip, all the world is 






Of veiling their desires. 


beautiful 






Conventionalism, 


If we were happv, and could chime in 






Who shrieks by day at what she does 


with it. 






by night. 


Edgar. True ; for the senses, love, 






Would call this vice; but one time's 


are for the world ; 






vice may be 


That for the senses. 






The virtue of another ; and Vice and 


Eva. Yes. 






Virtue 


Edgar. And when the man, 






Arc but two masks of self; and what 


The child of evolution, flings aside 






hereafter 


His swaddling-band.s, the morals of 






Shall mark out Vice from Virtue in 


the tribe. 






the gulf 


He, following his own instincts as his 






Of neverdaivning darkness? 


God, 






Enter Eva. 


Will enter on the larger golden age; 
No pleasure then taboo'd : for when 
the tide 






My sweet Eva, 


Of full democracy has overwhelm'd 
This Old world, from that flood will 






Where liave you Iain in ambush all 






the morning.' 


rise the New, ^ 






'I* I'hey say your sister, Dora, has 


Like the Love-goddess, with no bridal ^, 








return d. 


veil. 










And that should make you liaiipy, if 


King, trinket of the Cluirch, but 










you love her ! 


naked Nature 










I'.ut you look troubled. 


In all her loveliness. 








1 


^tv7 Oh, I love her so. 


Eva. What are you saying ;■ 


1 






The Promise of May. 



E./f^iir. That, if we did net strain 
to make ourselves 
IVlter and higher than Nature, we 

might be 
As happy as the bees tliere at their 

honey 
In these sweet blossoms. 
Em. Yes ; how sweet they smell ! 
Edgar. There I let me break some 
off for you. 

[Breaihig brant It off. 

Eva. My thanks. 

Hut, look, how wasteful of the blossom 

One, two, three, four, five, six — you 

have robb'd poor father 
Of ten good apples. Oh, I forgot 

to tell you 
lie wishes you to dine along with us, 
And speak for him after — you that 
are so clever ! 
Edgar. I grieve I cannot ; but, in- 

' deed 

Eva. What is it ? 

Edgar. Well, business. I must 

leave you, love, to-day. 
Eva. Leave me, to-day ! And 

when will you return .' 
Edgar. I cannot tell precisely; 

but 

Eva. But what.' 



EdL'. 



dear 



be always friends. 
E-ia. After all that has gone be- 
tween us — friends ! 
What, only friends .' {Drops branch. 
Edgar. ' All that has gone between 

Should surely make us friends. 
Eva. But keep us lovers. 

Edgar. Child, do you love me 

now .> 
Eva. Yes, now and ever. 

Edgar. Then you should wish us 
both to love for ever. 
l;ui, if yoa wili bind love to une for 

ever, 
.Mtho'at first he take his bonds for 

flowers, 
As years go on, he feels them press 

upon him, 
Mi-uins to flutter in them, and at 




Breaks thro' them, and so flie 

for ever ; 
While, had you left him free 

his wings. 
Who knows that he had ever dream'd 

of flying .' 
Eva. But all that sounds so wicked 

and so strange ; 
' Till death us part ' — those are the 

only words. 
The true ones — nay, and those not 

true enough, 
For they that love do not believe that 

death 
Will part them. Why do you jest 

with me, and try 
To fright me .' Tho' you are a gentle- 
man, 

I but a farmer's daughter 

Edgar. Tut ! you talk 
Old feudalism. When the great De- 
Makes a new world 

Ez'a. And if you be not jesting. 

Neither the old world, nor the new. 

nor father. 
Sister, nor you, shall ever see me 

more. 
Edgar {maivd). Then — (aside) 

Shall I say it .> — (aloud) fly with 

me to-day. 
Eva. No ! Philip, Philip, if vou do 

not marry me. 
I shall go mad for utter shame and 

die. 
Edt;ar. Then, if we needs must be 




When shall your parish-par.son bawl 

our banns 
Before your gaping clowns } 

Eva. Not in our church — 

I think I scarce could hold my head 

up there. 
Is there no other way .'' 

Edgar. Ves, if you cared 

To fee an over-opulent superstition. 
Then they would grant you what they 

call a license 
To marry. Do you wish it .' 

Eva. Do I wish it .' 

Eds^ar. In London. 

Eva. You will write to me ' 





The Promise of May. 



Eva. Anil I will fly to you thro' 
the night, the storm — 

\es, tho' the fire should run along the 
ground, 

\s once it did in Egypt. Oh, you 
see, 

\ was just out of school, I had no 
mother — 

My sister far away — and you, a gen- 
tleman, 

Told me to trust you : yes, in every- 



n.xt w 

(Jh, yes, 



s the only true love; and 

asted— 

indeed, I would have died f, 



How could you — Oh, how could you? 

— nay, how could I ? 
r.ut now you will set all right again, 

and I 
Shall not be made the laughter of the 

village. 
And poor old lather not die misera- 
ble. 
Dora (.■:iiix:iiff in the ilislaiicr). 
( ) joy for the promise of May, of 

May, 
O joy for the promise of May. 
Ei/j^iir. Speak not so loudly ; that 
must be your sister. 
You never told her, then, of what has 

Between us. 

Era. Never ! 

KJ^'tir. Ho not till 1 bid you. 

E7,i. No, Philip, no. 

[ Tunis away. 
Eii.!;ar (mmnti). How gracefully 
there she stands 
Weeping— the little Niobe ! What! 

we prize 
The statue i>r the picture all the more 
When we have made themour.s! Is 

she less loveable. 
Less lovely, being wholly mine? To 



among these quiet 



lith these honest folk 

And play the fool ! 
he that gave herself to me so 





Eva. Did you speak, Philip ? 
Edgar. Nothing more, farewell. 
I They emtiraee. 
Di^ra (,w«//;,v nearer). 

(J !;rief for the promise of Mav, 

of May, 
O grief for the promise of May. 
Edgar (stilt embracing her). Keep 
up your heart until we meet 
again. 
Eva. If that should break before 

we meet again ? 
Edgar. Break! nay, but call for 
Philip when you will, 
.And lie returns. 

E-i-n. Heaven hears you, Philip 

Kdgar ! 

EJgar imaz'ed). And Ae woul.l 

hear you even from the grave. 

Heaven curse him if he come not al 

your call ! [Exit. 



Dora. Well, Eva ! 

Era. Oh, Dora, Dora, how long 
you have been away from home ! Oh, 
flow often I have wished for you ! It 
seemed to me that we were parted for 
ever. 

Dora. For ever, you foolish child ! 
What's come over you ? We parted 
like the brook yonder about the alder 
island, to come together again in a 
moment and to go on together again, 
till one of us be married. But where 
is this Mr. Edgar whom you praised 
so in your first letters ? You haven't 
even mentioned him in your last ? 

Eva. He has gone to London. 

Dora. .\y, child ; and you look 
thin and pale. Is it for his absence ? 
Have you fancied yourself in love with 
him? That's all nonsense, you know, 
such a baby as you are. But you 
shall tell me all about it. 

Eva. Not now — presently. Yes, I 
have been in trouble, but I am happy 
— I think, quite happy i 

Dora (tai-ing Eva'.s hand). Cc 
then, and make them happy in the 
long barn, for father is in his glory, 
.and there is a piece of beef like a 





21ie Promise of May. 



Iiouse-side, and a |>lum-pudding as big 
as the round hay-stack. But see they 
are coming out tor the dance already. 
Well, my child, let us join them. 

/infer all frotn ham laughing. Eva 

sits reluctantly under upplr trie. 

Steer enters smoking, .tits hy KVA. 

Dance. 



ACT II. 

Fi-oe rears harje cl.ipseii hctiueen Acts 
I. ami JI. 

SCKNE. — A Meadow. On one 
SIDE A Pathway going over a 
RUSTIC Kkidge. .At back the 

l-ARMHOUSE AMONG TREKS. In 
THE DISTANCE A CHURCH .SPIRE. 

UoBSON and Dora. 

Dolison. So the owd uncle i' Coom- 

l)erland be dead, Mis.* Dora, beant 

Din-a. Yes, Mr. Dobson, I've been 
attending on his deathbed and his 
burial. 

Dohson. It be five year sin' ye went 
;if<)or to him, and it seems to me 
pobbut t'other day. Hesn't he left ye 

Dora. No, Mr. Dobson. 

Dohson. But he were mighty fond 
o' ve, warn't he ? 

Dora. Fonder of poor Eva — ^like 
everybody else. 

Dohson [handing J)ora hasket of 
ro.vs). Not like me, Mi.ss Dora; and 
1 ha' browt these roses to ye — I for- 
jiifs what they calls 'em, but I hallus 
gi'ed soom on 'em to Miss Eva at this 
time o' year. Will ya taake 'em .' fur 
.Miss Eva, she set the bush by my 
dairy winder afoor she went to school 
at l.ittlechesler— so I alius browt 
'em to her; and now she be 

nne, will ve taake 'em, Miss Dora 'i 

Dora. I thank you. They tell me 
day viiu mentioned her 
name too suddenly before my father. 
See that you do not do so again ! 



Dolison. Noa ; I knaws a deal bet- 
ter now. I seed how the owd 




sake 




I take them, then, for Eva's 



( Takes basket, places some in her 
dress. 

Dobson. Eva's saake. Yeas. Poor 
get, poor gel ! I can't abear to think 
on 'er now, fur I'd ha' done owt fur 
'er mysen ; an' ony o' Steer's men, an' 
ony o' my men 'ud ha' done owt fur 
'er, an' all the parish 'ud ha' done owt 
fur 'er, fur we was all on us prou<i on 
'er, an' them theer be soom of her 
oan roses, an' she wur as sweet as ony 
on 'em — the Lord bless 'er — 'er oan 
sen ; an' weant ye taake 'em now, Miss 
Dora, fur 'er saake an' fur my saake 
an' all .' 

Dora. De yuu want them back 
again .' 

Dohson. Noa, noa ! Keep 'em. 
But I hed a word to saay to ye. 

Dora. Why, Farmer, you should 
be in the hayfield looking after your 
men; you couldn't have more splendid 
weather. 

Dohson. I be a going theer ; but I 
thowt I'd bring tha them roses fust. 
The weather's well anew, but the glass 
l)e a bit shaaky. S'ivcr we've led 
moast on it. 

Dora. Ay ! but you must not be 
too sudden with it either, as you were 
last year, when you put it in green, 
and your stack caught fire. 

Dobson. I were insured. Miss, an' I 
lost nowt by it. But I weant be too 
sudden wi* it; and 1 feel sewer, Miss 
Dora, that I ha" been noan too sudden 
wi' yon, fur I ha' sarved for ye well 
nij;h as long as the man sarved for 'is 
swoet'art i' .Scriptur'. Weant ye gi'e 
me a kind answer at last ? 

Dora. 1 have no thought of mar- 
riage, my friend. We have been in 
such grief these five years, not only on 
my sister's account, but the ill success 
ot the farm, and the debts, and my 
father's breaking down, and his blind- 
ness. Ilow could I think of leaving 
him ?- 





The Promisf of May. 



Dohson. Eh, but T be well to do ; 
lid if ye would nobbut hev me, I 

iild taake the owd blind man to my 
oaii fireside. You should hev him 
alius wi' ye. 

Dora. You are generous, but it 
cannot be. I cannot love you; nay, 
I think I never can be brought to 
love any man. Tt seems to me that I 
liate men, ever since my sister left us. 
Oh, see here. {Pulls out a letter.) I 
wear it ne.xt my heart. Toor sister, 
I had it five years ago. ' Dearest 
Dora, — I have lost myself, and am 
lost for ever to you and mv poor 
father. I thought Mr. Edgar the best 
of men, and he has proved himself the 
worst. Seek not for me, or you may 
find me at the bottom of the river. 
V.v.\.' 

Dohson. Re that my fault ? 

Dora. No; but how should I, with 
ihis grief still at my heart, take to the 
milking of your cows, the fatting of 
your calves, the making of your but- 
ter, and the managing of your poul- 
try ■" 

Dolison. Naay, but I hev an owd 
woman as 'ud see to all that ; and you 
should sit i' your oan parlor quite like 
a laady, ye should! 

Dora. It cannot be. 

Dohsoii. And piaiiy the planner, if 
ye liked, all daay long, like a laiidy, 
ye should an' all. 

Dora. Tt cannot be. 

Dohson. And I would loove tha 
moor nor ony gentleman 'ud loove 
tha. 

Dora. No. no; it cannot be. 

Dohson. And p'raps ye hears 'at I 
soomtimes taakes a drop loo much ; 
but that be all along o' you. Miss, be- 
cause ye weiint hev me ; but, if yc 
would, I could put all that o' one side 
easy anew. 

Dora. Cannot you underst.ind 
words, Mr. Do'bson > I tell yon. 



Dohson. Eh, lass ! Thy feyther 
eddicated his darters to marry gentle- 
foiilk, and see what's coonied on it. 

Dora. That is enough. Farmer 




Dobson. You have shown me that, 
though fortune had born you into 
the estate of a gentleman, you would 
still have been Farmer Dobson. 
You had better attend to your hay- 
field. Good afternoon. [E.xit. 
Dobson. ' Farmer Dobson ! ' Well, 
I be Farmer Dobson ; but I thinks 
Farmer Oobson's dog 'ud ha' knaw'd 
better nor to cast her sister's misfortin 
inter 'er teeth arter she'd been a- 
readin' me the letter wi' 'er voice 
a-shaakin', and the drop in 'er eye. 
Theer she goas ! Shall I foller 'er 
and ax 'er to maake it up .' Noa, not 
yet. Let 'er cool upon it ; I likes 'er 
all the better fur taiikin' me down, 
like a laady, as she be. Farmer Dol>- 
s.m ! I be Farmer Dobson, sewer 
anew; but if iver I cooms upo' Gen- 
deman Hedgaragean, and doiint laay 
my cartwhip athurt 'is shou'ders, why 
then I beant Farmer Dobson. but 
summun else — blaame't if I beant ! 

Enter Haymakers with a load of 
hay. 

The last on it, eh ? 

\sl Haymaker. Yeas. 

Dohioii. Hoani wi' it, then. 

[E.xit surlily. 

1st Haymaker. Well, it he the last 
load hoam. 

znd Haymaker. Yeas, an' owd 
Dob.son should be glad on it. What 
maSkes 'im alius sagluni ? 

Sally Allen. Glum ! he be wuss nor 
glum. He coom'd up to me yister 
daay i' the haayfield, when mea and 
my sweet'art was a workin' along o' 
one side wi' one another, and he sent 
'im awaay to t'other end o' the field; 
and when I axed 'im why, he telled 
nio 'at sweet'arts nivcr worked well 
tpgither ; and I telled '/»/ 'at sweet 
',-irts alius worked best togither; and 
then he called me a rude naame, and 
I can't abide 'im. 

fames. Why, lass, doant tha knaw 
he be sweet upo' Dora Steer, and 
she weant sa much as look at 'im ? 
.■\nd wheniver 'e sees two sweet'arts 








ither like thou and nie, Sally, he 
be fil to bust hissen wi' spites and 
jalousies. 

S.i//v. I-et 'im bust hissen, then, ; 
(or uwt / lares. | 

ixf Haymaker. Well but, as I said | 
afoor. it be the last load hoam; do ! 
thou and thy sweet'art sing us hoam : 
to supper — 'The Last Load lloani.' 1 

All. Ay' 'The Last Load ■ 
Hoam.' 




The Promise of May. 



All. 



What did 



«y. 



!d white rose, an' tl 
bine .'sa'gaay, 
.•\n' the midders all mow'd, 

sky sa blue— 
What did ye saay, and wha 

do. 
When ye thowt there were i 

watchin' o' vou, 
.And you an' your !jally wa 
the haay, 
At the end of the daay, 
For the last load hoam ? 



awbody 
fork in' 



ind 



What did we do, 

saay, 
Wi' the briar sa greet 

sa graay. 
An' the midders all t 

sky sa blue — 
Do ye think I be gaw 

you. 
What we mowt saay, 



When 



mowt do, 

me an' my Sally wa 

the haay, 
.K\ the end of the daay. 
For the last load hoam ? 



)!ut what did ye saay, and what did yv 

do, 
Wi' the butterflies out, and the 

swallers at plaay, 
.\n' the midders all mow'd, an' the 

skysa blue? 
Why, coom then,owd feller, I'll tell it 

to you : 
i'or mc an' mv Sally we sweiir'd to be 




Well sung! 

James. Fanny be the naame i' thr 
song, but I swopt it fur she. 

\Pohitiiig to Sallv. 

Sally. Let ma aloan afoor lualk, 
wilt tha ? 

\st Haymaker. Ye shall sing that 
agean to-night, fur owd Dobson Ml gi'e 
us a bit o' supper. 

Sally. I weant goa to owd Dol> 
son ; he wur rude to me i' tha haav- 
field, and he'll be rude to me agekn 
to-night. Owd Steer's gotten all his 
grass down and wants a hand, and I'll 
goa to him. 

\st Haymaker. Owd .Steer gi'es 
nubbut cowcl tea to 'is men, and owd 
Dobson gi'es beer. 

Sally. But I'd like owd Steer's 
cowd tea better nor Dobson's beer. 
Good-bye. \Goinx. 

James. Gi'e us a buss fust, lass. 

Sally. I tell'd tha to let ma 
aloan < 

James. Why, wasn't thou and me 
a-bussin' o' one another t'other side o" 
the haaycock, when owd Dobson 
coom'd u'po' us .> I can't let tha aloan 
if I would, Sally. {Offering to kiss her. 

Sally. Git along wi' ve. do! \Exit. 
I All laugh ; exeunt singing. 

• To be true to each other, let 'appen 
what maay. 
Till the end'o' the daay 
An' the last load hoam. 

Enter Haroi.I). 
Harold. Not Harold! 'Philip 
Edgar, Philip F^dgar! ' 
Her phantom call'd me by the name 

she loved. 
I told her I should hear her from the 



Av: 



grave. 

member 
Ijright face b 
ilown upon nie 





Thro' that rich cloud of blossom. 

Since I left her 
Here weeping, I have ranged the 

world, and sat 
Thro' every sensual course of that 

full feast 
I'hat leaves but emptiness. 

' To be true to each other, let 'appen 
what maay. 
To the end o' the daay 
An' the last load hoani.' 

/f:iro/i/. Poor Eva ! O my God. if 
man be only 
A willy-nilly current of sensations — 
Reaction needs must follow revel — 



remorse, he, knowing that 




,v fi:r 



Moved in the iron grooves of Destiny ? 
Remorse then is a part of Destiny, 
Nature a liar, making us feel guilty 
()( her own faults. 

My grandfather— of him 
They say, that women — 

O this mortal house. 
Which we are born into, is haunted by 
The ghosts of the dead passions of 

dead men ; 
And these take flesh again with our 

own flesh, 
And bring us to confusion. 

He was only 
A poor philosopher who call'd the 

mind 
Of children a blank page, a /<[*«/<; rasa. 
There, there, is written in invisible inks 
' Lust, Prodigality, Covetousness, 

Craft, 
Cowardice, Murder' — and the heat and 

Of life will bring them out, and black 
nluiod : better 
I life— 
SoHg-i/iirMeraJ'}. 



-So the child grow 

death 
With our first wa 




' Till the end o' the daay 
An' the last load hoiim. 
Load hoam.' 



,j/ May. 



This Ijridge again 

How often have I stood 

With Kva here ! The brook amone 
its flowers I 

Forget-me-not, meadowsweet, willow- 
herb. 

I had some smattering of science then. 

Taught her the learned names, anato- 
mized 

The flowers for her — and now I only 
wish 

This pool were deep enough, that I 
might plunge 

And lose myself for ever. 

Enter Dan Smith (singing). 

Gee oop ! whoa ! Gee oop I whoa ! 
Scizzars an' Pumpy was good uns to 

goa 

Thruf slush an' squad 

When roads w.is bad. 
But hallus ud stop at the Vine-an'-the- 

Hop, 
Fur boalh on 'em knawed as well as 

mysen 
That beer be as good fur 'arses as 



oop ! 



Gee oop ! whoa ! 
whoa ! 

Scizzars an' Pumpy was good uns to 
goa. 

The beer's gotten oop into my 'ead. 
S'iver I mun git along back to the 
farm, fur she tell'd ma to taake the 
cart to Littlechester. 

Enter Dora. 

Half an hour late ! why are you 

loitering here.' Away with you at 

once. lExit Dan Smith. 

(Seeing Harold on bridge.) 

Some madman, is it. 
Gesticulating there upon the bridge .' 
I am half afraid to pass. 

HarolJ. Sometimes I wonder. 

When man has surely learnt at last 

that all 
His old-world faith, the blossom of 

his youth. 
Has faded, falling fi 
then 





The Promise of May. 



All of us, all at once, may not be 

seized 
Willi some fierce passion, not so 

much for Death 
As against Life 1 all, all, into the 

dark- 
No more! — and science now could 

drug and balm us 
Hack into nescience with as little pain 
As it is lo fall asleep. 

This beggarly life, 
This poor, flat, hedged-in field— no 

distance— this 
Hollow Pandora-box, 
With all the pleasures flown, not even 

Hope 
I ,ef t at the bottom ! 

Superstitious fool. 
What brought me here ? To see her 

grave ? her ghost ? 
Her ghost is everyway about me here. 
Dora (coming forward). Allow me, 

sir, to pass you. 
Harold. Eva ! 

Dora^ Eva ! 

Harold. What are you.' Where 

do you come from } 
Dora. From the farm 

Here, close at hand. 
Harold. Are you — you are — that 
Dora, 
The sister. I have heard of you. 

1 he likeness 
Is ver)' striking. 

Dora. You knew Eva, then } 

Harold. Yes — I was thinking of 
her when — O yes. 
Many years back, and never since have 



He 



:iual for pure innocence of 
of feature. 



And loveli 

Dora. No, nor 1. 

Harold. Except, indeed, I have 
found it once again 
In your own self. 

Dora. You flatter me. Dear Eva 
Was always thought the prettier. 

Harold. And her charm 

Of voice is also yours ; and I was 

brooding 

Upon a great unhappiness when you 
spoke. 



Dora. Indeed, you seem'd 

trouble, sir. 
Harold. Aud ] 

Seem my good angel who may help 
me from it. 
Dora (aside). How worn he looks, 
poor man ! who is it, I wonder. 
How can I help him.' (Aloud.) 
Might I ask your name .' 
Ifarold. Harold. 
Dora. I never heard her mention 

you. 
Harold. I met her first at a farm 
in Cumberland — 
Her uncle's. 

Dora. She was there six years ago. 
Harold. And if she never men- 
tion'd me, perhaps 
The painful circumstances which I 

I will not vex you by repeating them — 
Only last week at Litllechester, drove 

From out her memory. She has dis- 

appear'd. 
They told me, from the farm— and 

darker news. 
Dora. She has disappear'd, poor 

darling, from the world — 
Left but one dreadful line to say, that 

Should find her in the river ; and we 

dragg'd 
The Littlechester river all in vain : 
Have sorrow'd for her all these years 

in vain. 
And my poor father, utterly broken 

down 
By losing her— she was his favorite 

child- 
Has let his farm, all his affairs, I fear, 
Kut for the slender help that 1 can 

give, 
Fall into ruin. Ah! that villain, 

Edgar, 
If he should ever shosv his face 

among us. 
Our men and boys would hoot him, 

stone him, hunt him 
With pitchforks off the farm, for all 

of them 
Loved her, and she was worthy of all 





'I'he Promise of May. 



Harold. 'I'hey say, w< 
give our enemies. 



Id for- 
c dead 



Dora. Ay 

I might forgive him ; 
We know not whether he be dead or 

//aral,i. WhatKdgar? 
Dora. Philip Edgar of Toft Hall 
In Somerset. Perhaps you know 
him ? 
Harold. Slightly. 

[Aside.) Ay, for how slightly have I 
known myself. 
Dora. This Edgar, then, is living .' 
Harold. Living? well — 

One Philip Edgar of Toft Hall in 

Soinerset 
Is lately dead. 
Dora. Dead ! — is there more than 

one .' 
Harold. Nay — now — not one, 

(aside) for I am Philip Harold. 
Dora. That one, is he then — 

dead ! 
Harold. (Asid,-.\ My father's 
death. 
Let her believe it mine ; this, for the 



Will leave me a free field. 

Dora. Dead ! and this world 

Is brighter for his absence as that 

other 
Is darker for his presence. 

Harold. Is not this 

To speak too pitilessly of the dead .' 

Dora. My five-years' anger cannot 

die at once. 
Not all at once with death and him. 

I trust 
1 shall forgive him — by-and-by — not 

now. 
(J sir, you seem to have a heart ; if 

you 
Had seen us that wild morning when 

we found 
Her bed unslept in, storm and 

shower lashing 
Her casement, her poor spaniel wail- 
ing for her, 
That desolate letter, blotted with her 



should 





Our old nurse crying as ii lor hei own 

child, 
My father stricken with his rtrst 

paralysis. 
And then with blindness— had you 

been one of us 
And seen all this, then you w(ju!d 

know it is not 
So easy to forgive — even the dead. 
Harold. But sure am I that of 

your gentleness 
Vou will forgive him. She, you 

mourn for, seem'd 
A miracle of gentleness — would not 

blur 
A moth's wing by the touching; 

would not crush 
The fly that drew her blood; and, 

were she living, 
Would not — if penitent — have denied 

him her 
Forgiveness. And perhaps the man 

himself, 
When hearing of that piteous death, 

has suffer'd 
More than we know. But wherefore 

waste your heart 
In looking on a chill and changeless 

Past .' 
Iron will fuse, and marble melt ; the 

Remains the Past. But you are 

young, and — pardon me — 
As lovelv as your sister. Who can 

tell 
What golden hours, with what full 

hands, may be 
Waiting you in the distance .■■ Might 

1 call 
Upon vour father — I have seen ihe 

vVorld— 
And cheer his blindness with a tra\ 

eller's tales .' 
Dora. Call if you will, and when 

you will. I cannot 
Well answer for my father ; but if 



Can tell me anything of on 

Eva 
When in her brighter gi 





The Promise, of May. 



must J 
Harold. bul give 
hand : 
1 do not dart, like an old friend, to 

shake it. 
1 kiss it as a prelude to that privilege 
When you shall know me better. 

Dora. {.Aside.) How beautiful 

His manners are, and how unlike the 

farmer's ! 
\'ov, are staying here .' 

Harold. Yes, at the wayside inn 
Clo.'ie by that alder-island in your 

brock, 
• rhe Angler's Home.' 

Dora. Are you one .' 

Harold. No, but I 

lake some delight in sketching, and 

the country 
Has many charms, altho' the inhabi- 
tants 
.Seem semi-barbarous. 

Dora. I am glad it pleases you ; 
Yei I, born here, not only love the 

country. 
Hut its inhabitants too ; and you, I 

doubt not, 
Would take to them as kindly, if you 

cared 
To live some time among them. 

Harold. If I did, 

Then one at least of its inhabitants 
.Vl ight have more charm for me than 
all the country. 
Dora. That one, then, should be 

grateful for vour preference. 
Harold. I cannot tell, the' stand- 
ing in her presence. 
[Aside.) Shecolor.s! 

Harold. Be not afraid of me, 

Kor these are no conventional 

flourishes. 
1 do most earnestly assure you that 

Vour likeness ' 

\Shouts and cries -uilhout. 
Dora. What was that .> my poor 
blind father — 




Enter Farming Ma 




Miss Dora, Dan 
nned ower a laiidy 



i' the holler laane, and they ha' ta'en 
the body up inter your chaumber, and 
they be all a-callin' lor ye. 

Dora. The body ! — Heavens ! 1 

Harold. But you are trembling. 

Allow me to go with you to the farm. 

\Exeintt. 



Enter DoBSON. 

Dobson. What fellev wur it as' a' 
been a-talkin' fur haafu- an hour wi" 
my Dora.> (Looking after him). 
Seeams I omniost knaws the back 
on 'im— drest like a gentleman, too. 
Damn all gentlemen, says I ! I should 
ha' thowt they'd hed anew o' pentle- 
foalk, as I telled 'er to-daay when she 
fell foul upo' me. 

Minds ma o' summun. 1 could 
swear to that; but that be all one, 
fur 1 haates 'im afoor I knaws what 
'e be. Theer ! he turns round. 
I'hilip Hedgar o' Soonierset ! Philip 
Hedgar o' Soomerset ! — Noa — yeas — 
thaw the feller's gone and maade such 
a litter of his faiice. 

Eh lad, if it be thou, I'll Philip 
tha ! a-plaayin' the .saame gaame wi' 
my Dora — I'll Soomerset tha. 

I'd like to drag 'im thruff theherse- 
pond, and she to be a-lookin' at it. 
I'd like to leather 'im black and blue, 
and she to be a-laughin' at it. I'd 
like to fell 'im as dead as a bullock ! 
[Clenching his fist.) 

But what "ud she saay to that ? She 
telled me once not to meddle wi' 'im, 
and now she be fallen out wi' ma, and 
I can't coom at 'cr. 

It mun be him. Noa ! Fur she'd 
niver 'a been talkin" haafe an hour wi' 
the divil 'at killed her oan sister, or 
she beant Dora Steer. 

Yeas! Fur she niver knawed 'is 
faiice when 'e wur 'ere afoor; but I'll 
maake 'er knaw ! I'll maake 'er 
knaw! 



Enter Harold. 
Naay, but I mun git o 





The Promise of 



I shall be the death on 

\ExU. 

IlayolJ. Mow the clown glared at 

me ! that Dobbins, is it, 
With whom I used to jar ? but can he 

trace me 
Thro' five years' absence, and my 

change of name. 
The tan of southern summers and 

the beard ? 
1 may as well avoid him. 

Ladylike ! 
Lilylike in her stateliness and sweet- 
ness ! 
How came she bv it ? — a daughter of 

the fields, ' 
This Dora ! 
She gave her hand, unask'd, at the 

farm-gate ; 
I almost think she half return'd the 

pressure 
Of mine. What, I that held the 

orange blossom 
Dark as the yew? but may not those, 

who march 
Uefore their age, turn back at times, 

and make 
<_'uurtesy to custom.^ and now the 

stronger motive. 
Misnamed free-will — the crowd would 

call it conscience — 
Moves me — to what .' I am dream- 
ing ; for the past 
Look'd thro' the present, Eva's eyes 

thro' hers— 
A spell upon me ! Surely I loved 

Eva 
More than I knew ! or is it but the 

past 
That brightens in retiring .' Oh, last 

night 
Tired, pacing my new lands at Little- 

Chester, 
I dozed upon the bridge, and the 

black river 
Flow'd thro' my dreams — if dreams 

they were. She rose 
From the foul flood and pointed 

ard the farm, 
.\nd her cry rang to me across the 

years, 
call you, Philip Edgar, Philip 

Edgar ! 





Come, you will set all right again, 

and father 
Will not die miserable.' I could 

make his age 
A comfort to him — so be more at 

peace 
With mine own self. Some of my 

former friends 
Would find my logic faulty ; let them. 

Color 
Flows thro' my life again, and I have 

lighted 
On a new pleasure. Anyhow we 

must 
Move in the line of least resistance 

when 
The stronger motive rules. 

But she hates Edgar. 
May not this Dobbins, or some other 

spy 
Edgar in Harold.' Well then, t 

must make her 
Love Harold first, and then she will 

forgive 
Edgar for Harold's sake. She said 

herself 
She would forgive him, by-and-by, 

not now — 
For her own sake then, if not for mine 

But by-and-by. 



Enter DoBSON hthind. 

Debson. By-and-by — eh, %',A, dosta 
knaw this paaper ? Ye dropt it upo' 
the road. ' Philip Edgar, Esq.' Ay, 
you be a pretty squire. I ha' fun' ye 
out, I hev. Eh, lad, dosta knaw 
what tha means wi' by-and-by ? Fur 
if ye be goin' to sarvc our Dora as 
ye sarved our Eva — then, by-and-by, 
if she weant listen to me when I be 
a-tryin' to saave 'er — if she weant — 
— look to thysen, for, by the I^ord, I'd 
think na moor o' maakin' an end o' 
tha nor a carrion craw— noii — th.iw 
they hanged ma at 'Size fur it. 

Harold. Dobbins 

Dobsoii. I beant Dobbins. 

Harold. Nor am I Edgar, mv ] 
fellow. 





The Promise of May. 



has 



Dolison. Tha lies ! 
been saayiii' to my Dora ? 

HiirolJ. I have been telling her of 
the death of one Philip Edgar of Toft 
llall, Somerset. 

Dobson. Tha lies ! 

Harold [J>ulUn^ out a ttewspaf'er]. 
Well, my man, it seems that you can 
read. Look there — under the deaths. 

Dobsoii. 'O'the 17th, Philip Ed- 
gar, o' Toft Hall. Soonierset.' Huw 
cooni thou to be sa like 'im, then i 

H,irol,l. Naturally enough ; for I 
am closely related to the dead man's 
family. 

Dohson. \W ow coom thou by the 
letter to 'im .' 

Harold. Naturally again ; for as I 
used to transact all his business for 
him, I had to look over his letters. 
Now then, see these (takes out Uttirs). 
Half a score of them, all directed to 
me — Harold. 

Dobson. 'Arold! 'Arold ! 'Arold, 
so they be. 

Harold. My name is Harold ! 
Good-dav, Dobbins ! ]_Exil. 

Dobson. 'Arold ! the feller's clean 
daazed, an' maiized, an' maiited, an' 
muddled ma. Dead ! It mun be 
true, fur it wur i' print as black as 
owt. Naay, but ' Good daay, Dob- 
bijis.' Why, that wur the very twang 
on 'im. Eh, lad, but whether thou be 
Hedgar, or Hedgar's business man, 
thou he' 't naw business 'ere wi' mv 
Dora, as I knaws on, an' whether 
thou calls thysen Hedgar or Harold, ! 
if thou stick to .she I'll stick to thee — 
stick to tha like a weasel to a rabbit, I 
will. Ay! and I'd like to shoot tha 
like a rabbit an' all. ' Good daay, 
Dobbins.' Dang tha ! 



SCENE.— A Room in .Steer's 
House. Door leading into 
Bedroom at the HAt:K. 

Dora {rinpnga hanJbdl). Milly ! 



Milly. 





Enter Milly, 



The little 'ymn : 
Miss; but I wur so ta'en up wi' 
leadin' the owd man about all the 
blessed murnin' 'at I ha" nobbut 
larned mysen haafe on it. 

■ O man, forgive thy mortal foe, 
Nor ever strike him blow for blow , 
For all the souls on earth that live 
To be forgiven must forgive. 
Forgive him seventy times and seven ; 
For all the blessed soul.s in Heaven 
Are both forgivers and forgiven.' 

But I'll git the book agean, and lam 
mysen the rest, and saay it to ye afoor 
dark; ye ringed fur that. Miss, 
didn't ye .' 

Dora. No, Milly; but if the farm- 
ing-men be come for their WPg^s, to 
send them up to me. 

Milly. Yeas, Miss. \^Exit. 

Dora (sitting at desk counting 
money). Enough at any rate for the 
present. (Enter Farming Men.) 
Good afternoon, my friends. I am 
sorry Mr. Steer still continues too 
unwell to attend to you, but the 
schoolmaster looked to the paying 
you your wages when I was away, 
didn't he .' 

Men. Yeiis ; and thanks to ye. 

Dora. Some of our workmen have 
left us, but he .sent me an alphabeti- 
cal list of those that remain, so, Allen, 
I may as well begin with you 

Allen (liiilli his hand to his ear). 
Halfabitical ! Taiike one o' the 
young 'uns fust, Miss, for 1 be a bit 
deaf, and I wur hallus scaared by a 
big word ; leastwaiiys, I !;hould be wi' 
a lawyer. 

Dora. I spoke of your names, 
.\Hen, as they are arranged here 
(shows book) — according to their first 
letters. 

Allen. Letters! Yeas, I sees 
now. Them be what they larns the 
childer' at school, but I were burn 
afoor schoolintime. 

Doi-a. Hut, Allen, tho' you can't 





The Promise of May. 



I could whitewash that cot- 
tage of yours where your grandson 
had the fever. 

Allen. I'll hev it done o' Monday. 

Dora. Else if the fever spread, the 
parish will have to thank you for it. 

AlUii. Mea.' why, it be the Lord's 
doin", noan o' mine; d'ye think /',/ 
gi'e 'em the fever .' But I thanks ye 
all the saame. Miss. (Takes motley.) 

Dorn (calling mlt names), lliggins, 
Jackson, Lusconibe, Nokes, Oldham, 
Skipworth! (All take tnoney.) Did 
you find that you worked at all the 
worse upon the cold tea than you 
would have done upon the beer t 

Higgins. Noa, Miss ; we worked 
navy wuss upo' the cowd tea ; but we'd 
ha' worked better upo' the beer. 

Dora. Come, come, you worked 
well enough, and I am much obliged 
to all.W you. There's for you, and 
you, and you. Count the money and 
see if it's all right. 

Men. All right, Miss ; and thank 
ye kindly. 

[Exennt Luscombe, Nokes, Old- 
ham, Skipworth. 

Dora. Dan Smith, my father and 
1 forgave you stealing our coals. 

[Dan .Smith aift'anees to Dora. 

Dan Smith [bellenuing). Whoy, O 
lor, Miss ! that wur sa long back, and 
the walls sa thin, and the wmders 
brokken, and the weather .sa cowd, 
and niv missus a-gitthi'ower'er lyin'-in. 

Dora. Didn't I say that w'e had 
forgiven you ? But, Dan Smith, they 
tell me that you — and you have six 
children — spent all your last Satur- 
day's wages at the ale-house ; that 
yoti were stupid drunk all .Sunday, 
and so ill in consequence all Monday, 
that you did not come into the hay- 
tield. Why should I pay you your 
full wages ? 

Dan Smith. I be ready to taake 
llie pledge. 

Dora. And as ready to break it 
again. Besides it was you that 
were driving the cart — and I fear 
you were tipsy then, too — when you 
lamed the ladv in the hollow lane 





Dan Smith {bellowing.). O lor, 
I Miss ! noa, noa, noa ! Ye sees the 
I holler laane be hallus sa dark i' the 
arternoon, and wheere the big eshtree 
cuts athurt it, it gi'es a turn like, and 
'ow should I see to laame the laady. 
and niea coomin' along pretty sharp 
an'all.> 

Dora. Well, there are your wages ; 
the next time you waste them at a pot- 
house you get no more from me. 
(Exit Dan Smith.) Sally Allen, you 
I worked for Mr. Dobson, didn't you? 
I Sally (advancing). Yeas, Miss ; 
I but he wur so rough wi' ma, I couldn't 
] abide 'im. 

Dora. Why should he be rough 
! with you ? You are as good as a man 
in the hayfield. What's become of 
your brother ? 

Sallv. 'Listed for a soadger, Miss, 
[ i' the Queen's Real Hard Tillery. 

Dora. And your sweetheart — when 
j are vou and he to be married ? 
I Sally. At Michaelmas, Miss, 
I please God. 

Dora. You are an honest pair. I 
; will come to your wedding. 
! Sally. An'' I thanks ye fur that, 
Mi.ss, moor nor fur the waage. 

(Going — retnrns.) '.\ cotched ma 
about the waaist, Miss, when 'e wur 
'ere afoor, an' axed ma to be' is little 
sweet-art, an soa I knaw'd 'im when 
I seed' im agean and I telled feyther 
on 'im. 

Dora. What is all this, Allen ? 
Allen. Why, Miss Dora, mea and 
my maates, us three, we wants to hev 
three words wi' ye. 

Ni^i;ins. That be 'im, and mea, 
Mis.s'.' 
Jackson. An' mea, Miss. 
Allen. An' we weant mention naw 
naames, we'd as lief talk o' the Divil 
afoor ye as 'im, fur they says the 
master goas clean off his 'ead when 



he 



the 



three, arter Sally'd telled us on 'im, 
we fun' 'im out a-walkin' i' West 
Kield wi' a white 'at, nine o'clock, 
upo' Tuesday murnin', and all on us, 
wi' vour le.ive. we wants to leather 'im. 





The Promise <>/ May. 



Who? 

Alltii. Him as did the mischief 
here, five year' sin'. 

Dora. Mr. Edgar ? 

Allen. Theer, Miss! You ha' 
naamed 'im — not me. 

Dora. He's dead, man — dead ; 
gone to his account — dead and buried. 

Allen. I beant sa sewer o' that, 
fur Sally knaw'd 'im ; Now then.' 

Dora. Yes; it was in the Somer- 
setshire papers. 

Alien. Then yon mun be his 
brother, an' we'll leather 'im. 

Dora. I never heard that he had a 
brother. Some foolish mistake of 
Sally's ; but what ! would you beat a 
man for his brother's fault .' That 
were a wild justice indeed. Let by- 
gones be liygones. Go home ! Good- 
night! (All exeunt.) 1 have once 
more paid them all. The work of the 
farm will go on still, but for how 
long i" We are almost at the bottom 
of the well : little more to be drawn 
from it — and what then ? Encum- 
bered as we are, who would lend us 
anything ? We shall have to sell all 
the land, which Father, for a whole 
life, has been getting together, again, 
and that, 1 am sure, would be the 
death of him. What am I to do.' 
Farmer Dobson, were I to marry him, 
has promi-sed to keep our heads above 
water ; and the man has doubtless a 
good heart, and a true and lasting 
love for me : yet — though I can be 
sorry for him — as the good Sally says, 
' I can't abide him ' — almost brutal, 
and matched with my Harold is like a 
hedge thistle by a garden rose. But 
then, he, too — will he ever be of one 
faith with his wife ? which is my 
dream of a true marriai;e. Can I 
fancy him kneeling with me, and ut- 
tering the same prayer; standing up 
side by side with me, and singing the 
same hymn .' I fear not. Have I 
done wisely, then, in accepting him .' 
But may not a girl's love-dream have 
too much romance in it to be realized 
all at once, or altogether, or anywhere 
but in Heaven.' .And vet I had once 





a vision of a pure and perfect mar- 
riage, where the man and the i 
only differing as the stronger and the 
weaker, should walk hand in hand to- 
gether down this valley of tears, as 
they call it so truly, to the grave at 
the bottom, and lie down there to- 
gether in the darkness which would 
seem but for a moment, to be wakened 
again together by the light of the res- 
urrection, and no more partings for 
ever and for ever. (Walks uf and 
down. S/ie sings.) 

' O happy lark, that warblest high 

Above thy lowly nest, 
O brook, that brawlest merrily by 

Thro' fields that once were blest, 
O tower spiring to the sky, 

O grave in daisies drest. 
O Love and Life, how weary am I, 

And how I long for rest.' 

There, there, I am a fool ! Tears ! [ 
have sometimes been moved to tears 
by a chapter of fine writing in a novel ; 
but what have I to do with tears now ? 
All depends on me — Father, this poor 
girl, the farm, everything ; and they 
both love me — I am all in all to both ; 
and he loves me too, I am quite sure 
of that. Courage, courage ! and all 
will go well. [Goes to bedroom door ; 
opens it.) How dark your room is I 
Let me bring you in here where there 
is still full daylight. (Brink's Eva 
/om/ard.) Whv, vou look better. 

Eto. .And I feel so much better, 
that I trust I may be able by-and-by to 
help you in the business of the farm : 
but I must not be known yet. Has 
anyone found me out, Dora ? 

Dora. Oh, no; you kept your veil 
too close for that when they carried 
you in , since then, no one has seen 
vou but mvself. 
' Eva. Yes— this Milly. 

Do>a. Poor blind Father's lull. 
guide, Milly, who came to us three 
years after you were gone, how should 
she know you ? But now that you 
have been brought to us as it were 
from the grave, deaicst Eva, and nave 





The Promise of May. 



been here so long, will you not speak 
with Father to-day? 

Eva. Do you think that I may ? 
No, not yet. I am not equal to it 
yet. 

Dora. Why? Do you still suffer 
from your fall in the hollow lane ? 

Eva. Bruised ; but no bones 
broken. 

Dora. I have always told Father 
that the huge old ashtree there would 
cause an accident some day; but he 
would never cut it down, because one 
of the .Steers had planted it there in 
former times. 

Eva. If it had killed one of the 
Steers there the other day, it might 
have been better for her, for him, and 
for you. 

Dora. Come, come, keep a good 
heart ! Better for me I That's good. 
How better for me ? 

Ev.i. Vou tell me you have a lovei. 
Will he not fly from you if he learn 
the story of my shame and that I am 



ill li^ 



ing : 



Dirra. No; I am sure that when 
we are married he will be willing that 
you and Father should live with us ; 
for, indeed, he tells me that he met 
you once in the old times, and was 
much taken with you, my dear. 

Eva. Taken with me ; who was 
he ? Have you told him I am here ? 

Dora. No ; do you wish it ? 

Eva. .See, Dora ; you yourself are 
ashamed of me (weeps), and I do not 
wonder at it. 

Oora. But 1 should wonder at 
myself if it were so. Have we not 
been all in all to one another from the 
time when wc tirst peeped into the 
bird's nest, waded in the brook, ran 
after the butterflies, and prattled to 
each other that we would marry fine 
gentlemen, and pl-iyed at being fine 
ladies? 

Eva. That last was 




Fathe 



poor man. .A.nd this lover of 
-this Mr. Harold— is a gentle- 



Dora. That he is, from head to 
foot. I do believe I lost my heart to 




and I 



him the very first time 
love him so much — 

Eva. Poor Dora ! 

Dora. That I dare not tell him 
how much I love him. 

Eva. Better not. Has he offered 
you marriage, this gentleman ? 

Dora. Could I love him else ? 

Eva. And are you quite sure that 
after marriage this gentleman will not 
be shamed of his poor farmer's daugh- 
ter among the ladies in his drawing- 
room ? 

Dora. Shamed of me in a drawing- 
room ! Wasn't Miss Vavasour, our 
schoolmistress at I.ittlechester, a lady 
born ? Were not our fellow-pupils all 
ladies? Wasn't dear mother herself 
at least by one side a lady ? Can't I 
speak like a lady ; pen a letter 
like a lady ; talk a little French 
like a lady; play a little like a lady? 
Can't a girl when she loves^ her hus- 
band, and he her, make herself any- 
thing he wishes her to be ! Shamed 
of me in a drawing-room, indeed ! See 
here ! ' I hope your Lordship is 
quite recovered of your gout?' 
[Curtsies.) ' Will your I-adyship ride 
to cover to-day? [Ciirtsus.) I can 
recommend our Voltigeur.' ' I am 
sorry that we could not attend your 
Grace's party on the lotli ! ' {Curt- 
sies.) There, I am glad my nonsense 
has made you smile ! 

Eva. I have heard that ' your 
Lordship,' and 'your Ladyship,' and 
' your Grace ' are all growing old-fash- 
ioned I 

Dora. But the love of sister for 
sister can never be old-fashioned. I 
have been unwilling to trouble you 
with questions, but you seem some- 
what better to-day. We found a 
letter in your bedroom torn into bits. 
I couldn't make it out. What was it ? 

Eva. From him I from him I He 
said we had been most happy to- 
gether, and he trusted that some time 
we should meet again, for he had not 
forgotten his promise to come when I 
called him. But that was a mockery, 
you know, for he gave me no address. 





The Promise oj Max. 



and there was no word of marriage ; 
and, O Dora, he signed himself 'Yours 
gratefully' — fancy, Dora, ' gratefully' ! 
■ Voiirs gratefully' ! 

Dora. Infamous wretch ! (Aside.) 
Shall 1 tell her he is dead ? No ; she 
is SI ill too feeble. 

Evil. Hark ! Dora, some one is 
coming. I cannot and will not see 
anybody. 

Dora. It is only Milly. 

Enter MiLLV with basket of roses. 

Dora. Well, Milly, why do you 
come in so roughly.' This sick lady 
here might have been asleep. 

Miliy. Please, Miss, Mr. Dobson 
telled me to saay he's browt some of 
Miss Eva's roses for the sick laady to 
smell on. 

Doru. Take them, dear. Say that 
the sick lady thanks him ! Is he here ? 

Milly. Yeas, Miss ; and he wants 
to speak to ye partic'lar. 

Dora. Tell him I cannot leave the 
sick lady just yet. 

Milly. Yeas, Miss ; but he says he 
wants to tell ye summut very partic'- 
lar. 

Dora. Not to-day. What are you 
staying for .' 

Milly. Why, Miss, I be afeard I 
shall set him a-swearing like onythink. 

Dora. And what harm will that do 
you, so that you do not copy his bad 
manners.' Go, child. (ExitUiWy.) 
But, Eva, why did you write ' .Seek 
me at the bottom of the river ' ? 

Eva. Why } because 1 meant it ! 
— that dreadful night! that lonely 
walk to Littlechester, the rain beating 
in my face all the way, dead midnight 
when I came upon the bridge ; the 
river, black, slimy, swirling under me 
in the lamplight, by the rotten wharfs 
— but I was so mad, that I mounted 
upon the parapet 

Dora. You make me shudder ! 

Eva. To fling myself over, when I 
heard a voice, ' Girl, what are you do- 
ing there .' ' It was a Sister of Mercy, 
come from the death-bed of a pauper, 





who had died in his misery blessing 
God, and the Sister took me to her 
house, and bit by bit — for she prom- 
ised secrecy — I told her all. 

Dora. And what then ? 

£;w. She would have persuaded 
me to come back here, but I couldni. 
Then she got me a place as nursery 
governess, and when the children 
grew too old for me, and I asked her 
once more to help me, once more she 
said, ' Go home ; ' but I hadn't the 
heart or (ace to do it. And then — 
what would Father say ? I sank so 
low that I went into service — the 
drudge of a lodging-house — and when 
the mistress died, and I appealed to 
the Sister again, her answer — I think 
I have it about me — yes, there it is ! 

Dora (reads). ' My dear Child,— I 
can do no more for you. I have done 
wrong in keeping your secret ; your 
Father must be now in extreme' old 
age. Go back i 



id ask his for- 
giveness before he dies. — .Si.ster 
Agatha.' Sister Agatha is right. 
Don't you long for Father's forgive- 

Eva. I would almost die to have it '■ 

Dora. And he may die before he 
gives it ; may drop off any day, any 
hour. You must see him at once. 
(Rings bell. Enter Milly.) Milly, 
my dear, how did you leave Mr. 
Steer ? 

Milly. He's been a-moanin' and a- 
groanin' in 'is sleep, but I thinks he 
be wakkenin' oop. 

Dora. Tell him that I and the 
lady here wish to see him. Vou see 
she is lamed, and cannot go down to 
him. 

Milly. Yeas, Miss, I will. 

[Exit Milly. 

Dora. I ought to prepare you. 
You must not expect to find our 
Father as he was five years ago. He 
is mi'ch altered ; but I trust that your 
return — for you know, my dear, you 
were always his favorite— will give 
him, a,s they say, a new lease of life. 

Eva (ilini^ii'f: to Dora). Oh, Dora, 
1 )ora '. 





The Promise of May. 



Enter Steer led hy Milly. 

Steer. Hes the cow cawved ? 

Dora. No, Father. 
<^ Steer. Be the colt dead ? 

Dora. No, Father. 

Steer. He wur sa bellows'd out wi' 
the wind this murnin', 'at I tell'd 'em 
to gallop 'im. Be he dead ? 

Dora. Not that I know. 

Steer. What hasta sent fur me, 
then, fur ? 

Dora (taking Steer's arm). Well, 
F'ather, I have a surprise for you. 

Steer. I ha niver been surprised 
but once i' my life, and I went blind 
upon it. 

Dora. Eva has come home. 

Steer. Hoam ? fro' the bottom .)' 
the river ? 

Dora. No, Father, that was a mis- 
take. She's here again. 

Steer. The Steers was all gentle- 
foalks i' the owd times, an' I worked 
early an' laate to maake 'em all gen- 
tlefoalks agean. The land belonged 
to the Steers i' the owd times, an it 
belongs to the Steers agean : I bowt 
it l)ack agean ; but I couldn't buy my 
darter back agean when she lost 
hersen, could I ? I eddicated boalh 
on 'em to marry gentlemen, an' one 
on 'em went an' lost hersen i' the 

Dora. No, Father, she's here. 

Steer. Here I she nioant cooni here. 
What would her mother saay? If it 
be her ghoast, we mun abide it. We 
can't keep a ghoast out. 

Eva {/alU'ii}; at liis feel). O forgive 
me! forgive me ! 

Steer. Who said that t Taake me 
awaay, little gell. It be one o' my 
bad daiiys. \Exit Steer led hy MiUv. 

Dora (smoothitig Eva's foreliead). 
Be not so cast down, my sweet Eva. 
You heard him say it was one of his 
bad days. He will be sure to know 




Eva. It is almost the last of my 
bad days, I think. I am very taint. 
I must lie down. Give me your arm. 
I ead me back again. 

[Dora lakes Eva iiilo inner room. 




Enter M[Li,v._ 

Milly. Miss Uora ! Mi.s.-, Dora ! 

Dora {returning 
hedrootn door ajar] 
What is it.' 

Milly. Mr. 'Arold, Miss. 

Dora. Below 't 

Milly. Yeas, Miss. He be saayin' 
a word to the o«d man, but he'll 
coom up if ye lets 'ini. 

Dora. Tell him, then, that I'm 
waiting for him. 

Milly. Yeas, Miss. 

\Exil. Dora sits pensively and 



Enter H.ARoi.r. 

Harold. You are pale, my Dora! 

but the ruddiest cheek 
That ever tharm'd the plowman of 

your wolds 
Might wish its rose a lily, could it 

look 
But half as lovely. I was speaking 

with 
Your father, asking his consent — you 

wish'd me — 
That we should marry : he would an- 
swer nothing, 
I could make nothing of him ; but, my 

flower. 
You look so wearv and so worn ! 

What is it 
Has put you out of heart } 

Dora. It puts nie in heart 

Again to see you; but indeed the 

state 
Of my poor father puts me out of 

heart. 
Is yours yet living .' 
Harold. No — I told you. 
Dora. When .' 

Harold. Confusion ! — Ah well, 

well ! the stale we all 
Must come to in our spring-and-v\ inter 

world 
If we live long enough I and poor 

Steer looks 
The very type of Age in a 

bow'd 
To the earth he came from, 

grave he goes to, 




The Promise of May. 



Heneath the burthen of years. 

Dora. More like the picture 

Of Christian in my 'Pilgrim's Prog- 
ress ' here, 
I'.ow'd to the dust beneath the burthen 
of sin. 
Harold. Sin ! What sin ? 
Dora. Not his own. 

Harold. That nursery-tale 

.Still read, then ? 

Dora. Yes; our carters and our 
shepherds 
Still tind a comfort there. 

Harold. Carters and shei)herds ! 
Dora. Scorn ! I hate scorn. A 
soul with no religion — 
My mother used to say that such a 

Was witliout rudder, anchor, compass 

— might be 
Blown everyway with every gust and 

wreck 
On any rock ; and tho' you are good 

and gentle. 
Yet if thro' any want — 

Harold. Of this religion ? 

Child, read a little histon', you will 

find 
The common brotherhood of man has 

been 
Wrong'd by the cruelties of his relig- 
ions 
More than could ever have happen'd 

thro' the want 
Of any or all o£ them. 

Dora. —But, O dear friend, 

1 1 thro' tJie want of any — I mean the 

true one — 
And pardon me for saying it — you 

should ever 
He tempted into doing 

seem 

Not altogether worthy of you, I think 
That I should break my heart, for you 

have taught n)e 



i-hat might 



veyo 



Harold. What is this .> some one 
been stirring 
Against me ? he, your rustic amourist. 
The polish'd Damon of your pastoral 

here, 
Thi.s Dobson of your idyll ? 

Dora. No, Sir, no ! 




Did you not tell me he wa 

with jealousy. 
Had threaten'd ev'n your 

would say anything.' 
Did / not promise not to listen to 

Nor ev'n to see the man .' 

Harold. Good ; then what is it 
That makes you talk so dolefully } 

Dora. I told you — 

Mv father. Well, indeed, a friend 



vrong'd. 



One 



just now, 
that has 1 
vhose griefs are i 



has been much 



Was warning me that if a gentleman 
Should wed a farmer's daughter, he 

would be 
Sooner or later shamed of her among 
The ladies, born his equals. 

Harold. More fool he ! 

What I that have been call'd a 

Socialist, 
A Communist, a Nihilist — what von 

will ! 

Dora. What are all these t 
Harold. Utopian idiotcies. 

They did not last three Junes. Such 

rampant weeds 
Strangle each other, die, and make 

the soil 
For Caesars, Cromwells, and Napo- 



To root their powei 

myself 
From all such drea: 

say because 
I have 'inherited my Uncle. 

them. 
But — shamed of you, 

should prize 
The pearl of Beauty, 



1. I have freed 

, and some will 

Let 



Eui 



5! I 



en if I found 

Dark with the soot of slums. 

Dora. But I can tell you. 

We Steers are of old blood, tho' we 

be fallen. 
See there our shield. • {Pointing to 

For I have heard the Steers 
Had land in Saxon times ; and your 

own name 
(If Harold sounds so Knglish and so 

old 





The Promise of May. 



I am sure you must be proud of it. 

Harold. Not 1 1 

As yet I scarcely feel it mine. I took 

For some three thousand acres. 1 

have land now 
And wealth, and lay both at your 

feet. 
Dora. .And whal was 

Your name before ? 
Harold. Come, come, my girl, 

enough 
Of this strange talk. 1 love you and 

you me. 
True, I have held opinions, hold 

Which you would scarce approve of: 

for all that, 
I am a man not prone to jealousies, 
Caprices, humors, moods ; but very 

ready 
To make ailowance.s, and mighty slow 
To feel offences. Nav, I do believe 
I could forgive— well, almost .nny- 

thing — 
.\nd that more freely than your for- 
mal priest. 
Because 1 know more fully than In 




Dora. Your pardon for a 

She must be waked. 
Hirold. Who must be waked .> 
Doni. 1 am not deaf: you frighl 

What ails you.' 
Harold. .Speak. 
Dora. You know her, Eva. 

Harold. Eva ! 

\Eva opens the door and stands in 
the entry. 
She! 

Eva. Make her happy, then, and I 

forgive you. [Falls dead. 

Dora. Happy I What > 

Is it so ? Can it be .' 

They told me so. Yes, yes I I see it 

all now. 
O she has fainted. Sister, Eva, sis- 



Edgar ? 



He 



yours again — he will love you 
again ; 

back to you again. Look 

Sweet, 



! hin 



IS are all and 
boundless Na- I 
Oman 



What poor earthi 

each of u.-;. 
Here crawling in ( 
ture. Dora, 
If marriage ever brought 

happiness 
I doubt not I can make you happy. 

Dora. You make me 

Happy already. 

Harold. .\nd I never said 

\s much before to any woman living. 
Dora No .> 

Harold. No ! by this true kiss, 
you are the first 
I ever have loved truly. 

I r/ier kiss eaeh other. 
Evil (with ,, wild cry). Philip 

Fdgar ! 
Harold. The phantom cry! yo„ 

— did you hear a cry ? 
Dora. She must be crying out 

' Edgar ' in her sleep. 
Harold. Who must be crying out 
• Edgar ' in her sleep. 




One word, or do but .smile! 
do you hear me } 
[futs her hand on Eva's heart. 

There, there — the heart, O God I — the 
poor young heart 

Kroken at last -all still— and noth- 
ing left 

To live for. 

[Falls on the body of her sister. 
Harold. Living . .' . dead . . . 
She said ' all still. 

Nothing to live for.' 

She — she knows me — now . . . 
(Apau.H:) 

She knew me from the first, she jug- 
gled with me, ' 

She hid this sister, told me she was 
dead— 

I have wasted pity on her — not dead 

No ! acting, playing on me, both of 

them. 
'/'hey drag the river for her! no, not 

they ! 
Playing on me — not dead now — a 





Mitly. Please, Mister 'Arokl. 
Harold [roiig/ily). Well 

Milly. The owd ma\ 

agean to Mssen, an' wants 
To hev a word wi' ye about the mar- 
riage. 
/farold. The what ? 
A/illy. The marriage. 

Harold. The marriage ? 

Milly. Yeas, the marriage. 

Granny says marriages be maade i' 
'eaven. 
Harold. She lies ! They are made 
in Hell. Child, can't you see? 
Tell them to fly for a doctor. 

Milly. O law— yeas, Sir ! 

I'll run fur 'im mysen. \Exit. 

Harold. All silent there, 

Yes, deathlike I Dead ? I dare not 

look : if dead. 
Were it best to steal away, to spare 

myself, 
.^nd her too, pain, pain, pain ? 

My curse on all 
This world of mud, on all its idiot 

gleams 
< )f pleasure, all the foul fatalities 
That blast our natural passions into 
pains ! 



Enter DoBSON. 



Hedgar 




Dohoii. Y'ou, Master 
Harold, or whativer 
They calls ye, for I warrants that ye 

goas 
By haafe a .scoor o' na'ames — out o' 
the chaumber. 

[Dra^xing him past the body. 
Harold. Not that way, man ! 
Curse on your brutal strength ! 
I cannot pass that way. 

Dohson. Out o' the chaumber ! 

I'll mash tha into nowt. 

Harold. The mere wild-beast ! 

Dohson. (Hit o' the chaumber, 

dang tha ! 
Jlarold. Lout, churl, clown ! 

[ IV/iiU they are shouting and 
uggling Dora rises and comes 
het^oeen them. 



Dora {to Dobson). Peace, let him 
be : it is the chamber of Death ! 

Sir, you are tenfold more a gentleman, 

A hundred times more worth ;i 
woman's love. 

Than this, this— but I ' 
upon him : 

His wickedness is like my wietchcil- 

Heyond all language. 

( To Harold.) 
You — you see her there ! 
Only fifteen when first you came on 

her. 
And then the sweetest flower of all 

the wolds. 
So lovely in the promise of her May, 
So winsome in her grace and gaiety, 
So loved by all the village people 

here. 
So happy in herself and in her 

Dobson (agitated). Theer, theer ! 

ha' done. I can't abear to see 

her. [E.ril. 

Dora. A child, and all as trustful 

as a child I 

Five years of shame and suffering 

broke the heart 
That only beat for vou ; and he, the 

father. 
Thro" that dishonor which you 

brought upon us. 
Has lost his health, his eyesight, even 
his mind. 
Harold (con>ering his face). Enough ! 
Dora. It seem'd so; only there 
was left 
A second daughter, and to her you 

came 
Veiling one sin to act another. 
Harold. No ! 

You wrong me there ! hear, hear me ! 

I wish'd, if vou \Paiises. 

Dora. If I ' 

Harold. Could love me, could be 
brought to love me 

As I loved you 

Dora. What then ? 

Harold. I wish'd, I ho|icd 

To make, to make 

Dora. What did you hope to 
make ? 





The I'lomise of May. 



Harold. 'Twere best to make an 
end of my lost life. 
O Dora, Dora ! 

Dora. What did you hope to 

inalce ? 
Harold. Make, make ! I cannot 
find the word— forgive it — 
Amends. 
Dora. For whnt ? to whom ? 

Harold. To him, to you ! 

{Falling at her feet. 
Dora. To him ! to me ! 

No, not with all your wealth, 
Your land, your life ! Out in the 

fiercest storm 
That ever made earth tremble— he, 
nor I — 



roof- 



for. 



Notliing from yoii ! 

Sunk in the deepest pit of pauperism, 

Push'd from all doors as if we bore 

the plague. 
Smitten with fever in the open field. 
Laid famine-stricken at the gates of 

Death- 
Nothing from you ! 

But she there — her last word 
Forgave^and I forgive you. If you 

ever 
Forgive yourself, you are even lower 

and baser 
Than even I can well believe you. Go ' 
{He lies at her feet. Curtain falls. 






INDEX TO FIRST LINES OF 
VOLUME II. 



A CITY clerk, bui gently born and bred, i 
Altho' I be the basest of mankind. 65. 

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Gr 

ille lay, 184. 



Rannrr of England, not lor a season. O 

banner of Britain, hast thou. 197. 
He thou a-gawin' to the long barn, 422. 
Break, break, break, 106. 

Chains, my good lord : in your raised 

brows I read, 203. 
Come not, when I am dead, joi. 
Comrades, leave me here a little, while as 

yet 'tis early morn, 78. 
' Courage!' he said, and pointed toward 



Dead Princess, living Power, if that, 

which lived, 197. 
Deep on the convent-roof the snows, 00. 
Dust are our frames ; and, gilded dust. 




r the dreadful hollow behind the little 

I knew an old wife lean and poor. 43. 
Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls. 106. 
I'm glad I walked. How fresh the mead- 



; gaily. 



I send you hen 



read, before 

iller yet, 11. 

rt of allegorv. lo. 

an idle king. n'. 

:n lilies blow, 95. 
I waited for the train at Coventry, 84. 
I was the chief of the race— he had str 
my father dead. 208. 

Lauv Clara Vcre de Vere. 25. 
Like souls that balance 

nieht, 293. 
Long lines of 
chasm, 107 



eyelids dropt theii 



ce loy and pain. 100. 
liff breaking have left 



Love 



I thy : 



'iihl 



a. wedded to Lucre 
eastward, happy 



far-brought, 

found. 148. 

. and leave. 

somewhere 



^y good blade 



Of old sat Freedom on the heights. 41. 

f) Lady Flora, let me speak. 85. 

O Love. Love. Lovel O withering might! 



my ptea-iant 1 

iher side the r 
O plump head-wait( 



Once 

On c-i 

O plu , 

O thou, that send 



' Ouse-keeper 
Squire cot 
Outol 




tha mV lass, fur New 
the deep, my child, out of the deep, 




■ lord, the Lady Gioranna, ' 

;n our good Archbishop Theobald 



3iS- 



Stand back, keep a clear lane ! 213. 

'^'"' - the tower stood the V^Ae, 1 

Moreland of yonder t 



Sweet Emi 

■ The Bull, the Fleece are cram 

a room. 58. 
The rain had fallen, the Poet ; 

The wind, that beat.s the moui 

The'"' 



Waait till our Sally cootnfi 

Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wi 

land and sea, 178. 
• Wait a little,' you say, ' you are si 

.ill come riirht.' 176. 
We left I 
Well, you s 

Leonard ' 



early, mother dcai , 26. 



the Poet's 
early. 





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